msL 


THE  LIBRARIES 


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two    weeks    from    thf 
1    returr-:'"' 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF 
ROBERT  COLLYER 


VOLUME  I 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF 
ROBERT  COLLYER 


VOLUME  I 


BOOKS  BY 
JOHN  HAYNES  HOLMES 


THE   REVOLUTIONARY   FUNCTION   OF 
THE   MODERN   CHURCH 

MARRIAGE    AND    DIVORCE 

IS   DEATH    THE    END? 

NEW   WARS   FOR   OLD 

RELIGION   FOR   TO-DAY 

THE    LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 
ROBERT   COLLYER   (2  volumes) 


Robert  Collyer 
1880 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

OF 

ROBERT  COLLYER 

1823-1912 

BY 

JOHN  HAYNES  HOLMES 

ILLUSTRATED 
IN    TWO    VOLUMES 

VOLUME  I 


NEW  YORK 

DODD  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
By  DODD  mead  AND  COMPANY.  INC. 


A 


c  • 


TO 

Robert  Staples  Collyer 
A  Beloved  Son 


'Robin  has  been  my  staff  and  stay" 

R.  C,  in  letter  (June  14, 1901) 


PREFACE 

In  1914,  I  compiled  and  published  a  collection 
of  Robert  Collyer's  lectures,  addresses  and 
poems,  under  the  title  of  "Clear  Grit."  In  the 
Introduction  to  this  volume,  I  spoke  of  "certain 
lectures  of  a  largely  autobiographical  character 
which  have  been  reserved  for  publication  in  a 
later  volume." 

This  statement  was  the  "little  acorn"  from 
which  grew  the  "great  oak"  of  this  two- volume 
biography.  Dr.  Collyer's  children  had  cherished 
the  hope,  even  before  their  father's  death,  that 
the  story  of  his  life  might  some  day  be  adequately 
told.  The  romance  of  his  long  career,  the  great- 
ness of  his  fame  in  the  days  of  active  service,  the 
benignancy  of  his  presence  in  old  age,  the  loveli- 
ness of  his  character  and  influence,  all  conspired 
to  the  creation  of  such  a  hope  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  knew  and  loved  him  most  nearly.  I 
shared  this  hope  in  the  months  following  his 
death.  It  was  not  until  I  had  read  his  autobi- 
ographical lectures,  however,  and  arranged  them 
for  possible  publication,  that  I  began  to  under- 
stand how  desirable,  indeed  necessary,  was  the 

vii 


Tiii  PREFACE 

fiiltjlment  of  this  hope.  I  saw  that  the  proper 
use  for  these  documents  was  that  of  sources  for 
biography;  and  I  laid  them  one  side,  with  the 
recommendation  that  they  be  reserved  for  such 
a  purpose.  Very  shortly  after  the  appearance  of 
"Clear  Grit,"  I  was  invited  by  ^Ir.  and  ^Irs, 
Robert  S.  CoUyer  to  undertake  the  writing  of 
a  "Xife  and  Letters,"  and  immediately  there- 
after entered  upon  my  task. 

The  materials  which  I  have  used  in  the  prepa- 
ration of  this  work,  may  be  classified  as  follows : 

(1)  Robert  Collyer's  published  autobiogra- 
phy, *^Some  Memories."  This  I  have  used  not 
so  much  as  a  source,  as  a  guide  through  the  wil- 
derness of  other  sources.  It  has  also  been  in- 
-valuable  as  providing  a  kind  of  atmosphere  in 
which  to  study  and  write.  With  the  exception 
erf  my  chapter  headings.  I  have  made  few  quota- 
tioDs  from  this  book.  The  fact  that  Dr.  Collyer 
used  whole  pages  of  certain  of  his  lectures  in  the 
writing  of  his  memories,  gives  in  some  places  the 
appearance  of  quotation.  In  all  such  cases, 
howexer,  I  have  used  the  unpublished  manu- 
scripts and  not  the  printed  volume. 

(2)  Or.  Collyer's  books.  A  complete  list  of 
these  is  given  in  the  Appendix,  Volume  II,  page 
38-5. 

(S)   Dr.   Collyer's   autobiographical  lectures. 


PREFACE  ix 

above  referred  to.  These  were  prepared  for  de- 
liverv  at  Sunday  evening  services  in  his  church, 
and  on  the  Lyceum  platform.  The  most  im- 
portant for  my  purposes  were  "From  the  Anvil 
to  the  Pulpit,'  "My  Mother,"  "Our  Dale," 
"Charlotte  Bronte,"  "In  Autobiography," 
"Among  the  Mountains,"  and  "The  Fathers  of 
the  Church  of  the  Messiah." 

(4)  Dr.  Colly er's  letters.  Of  these  by  all 
odds  the  most  valuable  were  those  written 
through  a  period  of  over  forty  years  to  the  Rev. 
Flesher  Bland,  the  clergyman  under  whose  im- 
mediate influence  he  was  converted  to  Methodism 
and  began  his  lay-preaching.  Lovely  was  the 
friendship  between  these  two  men.  After  CoU- 
yer's  change  from  ^Methodism  to  Lnitarianism, 
their  doctrinal  beliefs  were  far  apart,  but  this 
mattered  not  at  all.  They  had  found  something 
more  precious  than  theology.  From  the  begin- 
ning of  the  correspondence,  as  though  moved  by 
some  intuition  of  the  future,  ^Ir.  Bland  kept  his 
friend's  letters,  and  they  were  passed  over  to  me 
numbered,  labelled  and  beautifully  arranged  by 
his  own  hand. — Another  interesting  and  care- 
fully preserved  correspondence  is  that  with  Jas- 
per Douthit.  of  Shelbyville,  Illinois.  One  series 
of  letters,  which  would  have  enriched  this  work 
bevond   all   calculation,   are   those  which   went 


X  PREFACE 

through  nearly  a  half-centun-  to  Dr.  WiUiam 
Henry  Furness,  of  Philadelphia.  Diligent  but 
fruitless  search  on  the  part  of  the  Furness  fam- 
ily demonstrated  that  this  correspondence  had 
been  either  destroyed  or  lost. 

( 5 )  Three  large  scrap-books  of  newspaper  and 
magazine  chppings — one  kept  through  all  the 
years  of  his  own  life  by  Flesher  Bland ;  one  kept 
by  Dr.  CoUyer,  or  his  family,  after  his  arrival  in 
New  York;  one  prepared  by  a  clipping-bureau 
after  his  death,  composed  of  the  articles  and  edi- 
torials occasioned  by  this  event. 

(6)  Pamphlets,  programmes,  leaflets,  etc.  Of 
these  I  would  make  particular  mention  of  an 
''Historical  Sketch  of  Unity  Church,  Chicago," 
by  Samuel  S.  Greeley;  and  "Pa]3ers  Read  in  the 
Church  of  the  Messiah,"  by  Robert  Collyer  and 
Gihnan  H.  Tucker. 

(7)  Church  records,  more  especially  those  of 
the  Church  of  the  Messiah,  Xew  York. 

(8)  Newspapers,  magazines,  etc.,  covering 
periods  of  Dr.  Collyer's  life  career,  and  contain- 
ing articles  from  his  pen. 

In  using  these  materials,  I  have  sought  to  tell 
a  full  and  well-rounded  story.  I  have  made  no 
attempt,  however,  and  spent  no  time  in  the  en- 
deavour, to  hunt  down  and  scrupulously  record 
every  smallest  detail  of  Dr.  Collyer's  life.    I  feel 


PREFACE 


XI 


reasonably  sure  that  nothing  of  real  importance 
or  interest  is  omitted  from  these  pages.    But  my 
purpose  from  the  beginning  has  been  not  to  pro- 
duce a  chronicle  of  events,  but  to  reproduce  the 
personality  of  a  man.     I  have  set  in  order  the 
narrative  as  it  has  revealed  itself  in  the  docu- 
ments placed  abundantly  and  easily  at  my  dis- 
posal, but  never  for  its  own  sake.     This  I  have 
done  rather  for  the  sake  of  providing  a  proper 
framework  or  background  for  a  personal  por- 
trait.    The  character  and  not  the  plot  has  been 
the  great  thing.     It  is  this  which  has  dictated 
the  very  liberal  use  which  I  have  made  of  Dr. 
CoUyer's  autobiographical  lectures  in  the  first 
part  of  the  work,  and  his  letters  in  the  last  part. 
Such  use  is  eminently  wise  in  any  biography,  but 
pre-eminently  so  in  a  biography  of  a  man  like  Dr. 
Collyer,  whose  eveiy  word  was  pregnant  with 
personality.    He  could  not  thank  a  person  for  a 
gift,  or  state  the  condition  of  the  weather,  with- 
out producing  a  document  which  was  redolent  of 
his  spii'it,  and  therefore  miiquely  and  beautifully 
his  o^vn.     If  any  thanks  are  due  to  me  for  the 
writing  of  this  book,  I  know  that  it  will  be  be- 
cause I  have  availed  myself  of  everj-  opportunity 
for  letting  Robert  Collyer  speak  for  himself  and 
thus  reveal  the  fibre  of  his  soul. 

For  assistance  in  this  work,  my  thanks  are  due 


xii  PREFACE 

to  many  persons.  First  of  all,  of  course,  are 
those  who  have  placed  their  precious  Collyer  let- 
ters in  my  hands,  and  patiently  allowed  them  to 
remain  there  for  a  somewhat  prolonged  period 
of  time;  and  others  who  have  sent  me  clippings, 
docimients,  reminiscences,  statements  of  personal 
fact,  etc.  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to 
name  here  these  good  friends  who  have  thus  co- 
operated with  me  in  my  task,  but  an  entire  page 
of  this  text  would  not  suffice  to  name  them  all, 
nor  the  most  conscientious  care,  I  fear,  to  make 
the  list  complete.  These  must  find  such  reward 
as  they  can  in  the  book  itself.  Certain  persons, 
however,  must  be  named — Dr.  Jenkin  Lloyd 
Jones  and  Rev.  Frederick  V.  Hawley,  of  Chi- 
cago, and  Charles  W.  Wendte,  of  Boston,  for 
assistance  in  finding  indispensable  documents; 
Salem  Bland,  for  free  use  of  the  priceless  ma- 
terial collected  by  his  father;  Samuel  Collyer,  for 
a  highly  useful  collection  of  newspaper  clippings, 
and  an  important  personal  statement ;  Mrs.  John 
E.  Roberts,  for  long  and  arduous  labour  in  classi- 
fying and  annotating  letters  for  my  use;  Miss 
Mary  C.  Baker,  my  secretary,  for  unceasing 
watchfulness  in  the  care,  disposal  and  arrange- 
ment of  all  material;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert 
S.  Collyer,  for  inviting  me  to  undertake  this 
work,  for  reading  and  criticising  every  page  as 


PREFACE  xui 

it  has  been  written,  for  giving  me  invaluable  sug- 
gestion, advice  and  information,  and  for  sustain- 
ing me  throughout  what  has  inevitably  been  a 
trying  task  with  their  affection  and  their  trust. 
Lastly,  I  would  mention  one  other  to  whom  I  am 
peculiarly  indebted — a  friend  beloved  and  hon- 
oured, who  for  a  period  of  weeks  placed  at  my 
disposal  the  resources  of  her  home,  in  the  quiet 
seclusion  of  which  a  large  portion  of  my  work 
was  done. 

The  writing  of  this  book  has  been  a  labour  of 
love.  For  five  years  and  a  half,  it  was  my  privi- 
lege to  know  Robert  CoUyer  as  his  associate  in 
the  ministry  of  the  Church  of  the  Messiah.  In 
the  intimate  personal  relationship  of  this  office,  he 
was  my  colleague,  my  friend,  my  brother,  my 
father  in  the  spirit.  In  my  perplexities  he  coun- 
selled me,  in  my  sorrows  comforted  me,  in  my 
weaknesses  strengthened  me,  in  moments  of  peril 
saved  me,  and  beyond  all  my  poor  deserts  blessed 
me  with  his  confidence  and  love.  I  know  full  well 
how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  repay  the  debt  I 
owe  to  him.  But  the  preparation  of  this  book 
has  made  it  possible  for  me  to  make  some  return, 
and  such  as  it  is,  I  have  given  it  with  joy.  It  is 
my  one  regret  that  I  have  been  able  to  bring  so 
little  to  so  noble  a  task.  If  devotion  and  high 
resolve  were  enough,  they  have  not  been  lacking. 


xiv  PREFACE 

But  along  with  these  should  go  other  qualities, 
needless  to  mention,  which  I  have  no  right  to 
claim.  Especially  have  I  been  poor  in  the  im- 
portant matter  of  time.  For  three  full  years  this 
book  has  been  upon  my  desk,  and  to  it  I  would 
gladlj^  have  given  every  moment  of  these  years. 
But  the  crowded  conditions  of  my  profession 
have  allowed  but  stray  and  fragmentary  hours. 
Nothing  that  I  have  had,  however,  of  ability  and 
time,  as  well  as  of  love,  has  been  kept  back;  and 
no  worshipper  ever  laid  offerings  upon  an  altar 
with  greater  joy,  than  I  have  here  bestowed 
these  petty  gifts  of  mine. 

If  I  have  brought  little  to  this  book,  however, 
it  has  brought  much  to  me.  It  has  disciplined  me 
to  the  doing  of  arduous  work.  It  has  lifted  me 
to  the  dignity  of  noble  purpose.  It  has  restored 
to  me  the  sweet  companionship  of  a  rare  and  ra- 
diant spirit.  It  has  given  me  friends  whom  I 
would  not  otherwise  have  known.  And  amid  the 
agony  and  terror  of  an  age  of  war,  it  has  offered 
a  quiet  shrine  where  I  have  held  converse 
with  things  good  and  beautiful,  and  thus  restored 
my  soul.  No  one  knows  so  well  as  I,  how  this 
book  has  enriched  my  life.  But  I  feel  poor  as  I 
write  this  final  word  and  lay  down  my  pen. 

J.  H.  H. 
August  1,  1917. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


VOLUME  I 


HAPTE 

& 

PAGE 

Preface  

vii 

Introduction  .... 

xxi 

List  of  Illustrations 

xvii 

I 

Well  Born  (1823) 

1 

II 

Well  Raised  (1823-1831) 

14 

III 

Doing  His  Best  (1831-1848)    . 

45 

IV 

Crisis  and  Change  (1848-1850) 

77 

V 

America  (1850-1858) 

104 

VI 

From   the  Anvil  to   the   Pulpit 

(1858- 

1859)   

140 

VII 

Chicago  (1859-1861) 

187 

ail 

The  Civil  War— National  (1861-1865) 

243 

INTRODUCTION 

The  life  of  Robert  Collyer  spanned  the  period 
of  ninety  years  (1823-1912),  from  the  third  dec- 
ade of  the  nineteenth  century  to  the  second  dec- 
ade of  the  twentieth.  It  witnessed  the  industrial 
transformation  of  our  civilisation,  the  tidal  flow 
of  foreign  immigration  into  the  United  States, 
the  battle  against  southern  slavery,  the  scientific 
and  philosophical  upheaval  consequent  upon  the 
work  of  Darwin,  Spencer  and  their  evolutionary 
confreres,  the  literar\'  awakening  of  the  Victo- 
rian epoch  in  England  and  the  Transcendental 
epoch  in  America,  the  building  of  transconti- 
nental railroads  and  the  winning  of  the  West, 
the  appearance  of  socialism  and  the  world- 
wide movement  for  social  change,  and  the  mar- 
shalling of  political  and  military  forces  for  the 
great  war  now  raging  in  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 
Neither  in  thought  nor  in  action  did  Collyer  in- 
fluence in  more  than  slight  degree  the  determin- 
ing forces  of  his  time:  only  in  the  Civil  War  was 
he  a  part  of  great  events,  and  only  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  Chicago  fire  did  he  win  universal 
fame.    His  career,  however,  caught  with  peculiar 

xix 


XX  IXTRODUCTIOX 

clearness  and  beauty  the  reflection  of  many  of 
these  stupendous  phenomena,  and  thus  was  a 
supremely  characteristic  product,  of  his  age.  To 
know  Robert  CoUyer  is  to  know  much  that  is 
most  inspiring  and  lovely  in  the  English-speak- 
ing world  of  the  last  century. 

Collyer's  life  was  set  in  two  countries,  Eng- 
land and  America.  Four  scenes  constitute  the 
background  of  his  activities.  First  (1823-1850) 
Yorkshire  in  the  English  midlands,  with  its 
moors  and  dales,  ugly  manufacturing  ^dllages, 
wholesome  peasantry-,  its  poverty,  struggle  and 
romance.  Xext  (1850-1859)  Pennsylvania,  with 
its  pleasant  farm  lands,  fragrant  orchards,  early 
industrial  ambitions,  and  Philadelphia  on  the  near 
horizon.  Then  (1859-1879)  Chicago,  in  the  years 
of  its  marvellous  growth  from  a  sprawling  fron- 
tier settlement  to  the  second  city  and  first  railroad 
centre  of  the  land.  And  lastly  (1879-1912)  Xew 
York,  where  a  serene  old  age  contrasted  strangely 
with  the  strenuous  and  heartless  vigour  of  a  vast 
metropolis.  From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
his  days,  Robert  Collyer's  magic  charm  of  per- 
sonality was  a  potent  factor  in  his  career;  the 
popular  apprentice  in  Ilkley  was  true  father  to 
the  loved  and  venerated  preacher  in  ^lanhattan. 
But  it  was  only  in  Chicago  that  he  entered  upon 
the    work    which    brought    him    happiness    and 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

power,  and  there  that  he  attained  the  zenith  of 
his  fanie. 

The  more  intimate  settings  of  Collyer's  life  are 
as  nmnerous  as  they  are  varied.  The  little  stone 
cottage  in  Washburndale ;  the  Blubberhouses  fac- 
tory, with  its  clanging  bell  and  huddled  horde  of 
child  laboui'ers;  the  smithy  in  Ilkley,  by  the 
Wharf e;  Denton  JNIoor,  with  its  mists  and  sun- 
shine, and  autumn  waves  of  purple  heather;  the 
JNIethodist  chapel  in  x^ddingham;  the  emigrant 
ship  on  the  broad  and  stormy  expanse  of  the  At- 
lantic ;  the  forge  at  Shoemakertown,  the  churches 
on  the  district  circuit,  and  the  library  at  Hatboro ; 
Chicago,  with  its  teeming  industry  and  swelling 
tides  of  population;  the  camps  and  battle-fields 
and  prison-pens  of  the  Civil  War;  Unity  Church, 
the  glory  of  Christian  liberalism  in  the  ]Middle 
West;  and  as  at  first  a  pimiacle  of  achievement 
and  then  a  haven  of  rest,  the  Church  of  the  ]Mes- 
siah  in  New  York — these  are  the  places  to  which 
the  romance  of  his  career  conducts  us  one  by 
one.  To  those  who  know  this  romance,  successive 
pictures  arise  in  inward  vision — the  eager  young- 
ster romping  over  the  moors  in  search  of  birds' 
nests  and  flowers,  or  listening  to  the  chimes  of 
Haworth  church,  or  reading  the  tattered  pages 
of  "Dick  AMiittington";  the  fettered  boy,  toiling 
before  the  spimiing  frames  till  the  back  bent  and 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

the  heart  was  well-nigh  broken;  the  lusty  black- 
smith, smiting  the  hot  iron  on  the  ringing  anvil; 
the  lay  preacher,  pouring  out  to  Yorkshire  yeo- 
men or  Pennsylvania  artisans  the  gospel  of  his 
spirit's  life ;  the  emigrant,  coming  alone  and  fear- 
ful to  an  unknown  land;  the  tender  nurse  at 
Donelson  and  Pittsburg  Landing;  the  famous 
preacher  and  lyceum  lecturer,  sought  and  loved 
of  thousands  throughout  the  land ;  the  hero  of  the 
great  fire,  proclaiming  the  word  of  hope  from  the 
smoking  ruins  of  his  church;  the  beautiful  old 
man,  with  locks  of  snow  and  smile  of  sunshine, 
reaping  the  rich  harvest  of  his  sowing.  What  a 
panorama  of  vii'tue  and  achievement  it  is!  A 
life  of  such  colour,  warmth,  fragrance,  struggle, 
joy,  disaster,  victory,  rich  accomplishment  and 
rich  reward,  as  few  men  in  this  or  any  time  have 
ever  lived! 

The  characters  that  play  with  Robert  Collyer 
the  drama  of  his  days  are  of  almost  uniform  at- 
tractiveness and  worth.  The  silent,  honest, 
tough-sinewed  father;  the  mother,  rare  specimen 
of  strong  and  tender  womanhood;  Will  Hardy, 
stern  teacher  of  rebellious  youth  and  merry  fid- 
dler withal  for  a  night's  dancing  at  the  inn;  John 
Dobson,  wool-comber,  lover  of  books  and  men, 
and  feeder  of  one  poor  famished  soul;  Harriett 
Watson,  the  first  love,  a  dim  but  infinitely  lovely 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

vision  appearing  for  a  moment  on  the  scene,  and 
then  gone ;  Ann  Ai-mitage,  staunch  companion  of 
forty  years,  faithful  ahke  in  vicissitude  and  tri- 
umph; children  five,  and  then  in  due  season 
troops  of  grandchildren;  Flesher  Bland,  circuit 
preacher,  winner  of  souls,  and  friend  to  Collyer, 
as  Jonathan  to  David,  through  more  than  a  half- 
century  of  time;  the  associates  of  fame — Emer- 
son, Longfellow,  Thoreau,  Mrs.  Gaskell,  Peter 
Cooper ;  the  thronging  parishioners  of  Unity  and 
the  Messiah ;  and  that  group  of  homely  Yorkshire 
folk,  to  whom  Collyer  returned  again  and  again 
through  the  mounting  years,  and  who  gathered 
him  each  time  to  their  bosoms  with  fresh  affec- 
tion and  ever  waxing  pride.  A  noble  company — 
worthy  of  a  romance  even  more  heroic,  if  not 
more  lovely,  than  this  of  one  great  son  of  York- 
shire. They  rise  as  figures  of  a  novel,  become  as 
friends  to  our  own  hearts,  and  pass  as  those  who 
are  mourned  and  not  forgotten. 

And  in  all,  through  all,  over  all — Robert  Coll- 
yer! His  stalwart  and  handsome  person — his 
courage,  simplicity,  and  tender  grace — his  words 
of  cheer  and  faith — his  enthusiasm  and  frank 
good  humour — his  love  of  flowers  and  birds  and 
little  children — ^his  devotion  to  men  and  noble 
causes — his  atmosphere  of  open  spaces,  running 
waters  and  sunny  skies — his  poetry  and  song — 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

his  fondness  for  books,  and  sympathy  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men — his  crushing  sor- 
rows and  benign  old  age — the  whole  romance  of 
his  pilgrimage  from  boyhood's  poverty  to  man- 
hood's fame — above  all,  his  own  natural  and  sim- 
ple human  self!  This  is  the  man,  whom  all  loved 
when  he  was  present;  and  now  that  he  is  gone, 
would  hear  his  tale,  that  they  may  take  from  it 
both  profit  and  example.  Many  are  the  men 
who  were  more  richly  endowed  in  native  faculty 
than  Robert  Collyer;  numberless  are  those  who 
were  blessed  with  favours  of  worldly  training  and 
advantage  which  he  never  knew.  But  there  are 
few  who  have  lived  as  beautifully  as  he,  taught 
truth  and  right  as  winsomely,  and  hved  and 
served  the  race  with  as  cheerful  a  courage  and  as 
sublime  a  faith.  The  story  of  this  long  life  is  a 
narrative  of  events,  for  Collyer's  days  were  full 
of  drama  and  romance ;  but  more  and  better  than 
this,  it  is  a  revelation  of  personality.  Robert 
Collyer  was  at  various  times  a  "doiFer,"  a  black- 
smith, a  preacher,  a  lecturer,  an  author,  a  public 
leader,  but  always  was  he  a  radiant  spirit,  full 
of  grace  and  truth,  touched  with  the  potency  of 
love.  Therefore  does  his  tale  escape  the  narrow 
confines  of  time  and  place.  It  takes  on  a  uni- 
versal quality  and  suggests  eternal  things.  It 
becomes  as  a  legend  which  lives  in  men's  hearts 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

forever,  not  as  a  story  but  as  a  symbol.     God 
was  in  him,  and  his  life  therefore  of  God. 

"Draw,  if  thou  canst,  the  mystic  line, 
Severing  rightly  his  from  thine, 
Which  is  human,  which  divine." 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF 
ROBERT  COLLYER 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF 
ROBERT  COLLYER 

CHAPTER  I 

WELL-BORN 

1823 

"We  have  no  family  tree  to  speak  of,  only  this 
low  bush."    R.  C.  in  "Some  Memories/'  page  2. 

"There  are  three  things  we  must  count  on 
as  of  the  finest  worth  in  our  life — I,  That  we 
shall  be  well  bom,  II,  That  we  shall  be  well 
raised,  and  III,  That  we  shall  do  our  best 
in  the  work  we  have  to  do  in  this  world.  And 
shall  I  not  add  this  fourth  to  crown  the  three; 
that  we  shall  seek  help  from  God,  but  for  which 
help  our  life  and  work  may  be  after  all  a  crop  of 
sand." 

Thus  does  Robert  Collyer  speak  in  an  open- 
ing paragraph  of  his  autobiographical  lecture, 
"From  the  Anvil  to  the  Pulpit."  That  he  could 
"fairly  claim"  to  be  "well  born,"  and  thus  to  ful- 
fil "one  great  condition  of  success  in  life,"  was 

1 


2  THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

his  reiterated  and  proud  assertion.  This  claim 
was  based  first  of  all  on  the  fact  that  he  was  an 
Englishman.  *'There  has  never  been  a  moment 
in  the  twenty-one  years  that  I  have  been  absent 
from  this  land,"  was  his  declaration  in  London, 
in  1871,  at  the  forty-sixth  anniversary  of  the 
British  and  Foreign  Unitarian  Association, 
"when  it  has  not  been  one  of  the  fondest  recol- 
lections and  convictions  that  I  came  of  this  grand 
old  English  stock."  More  particularly,  however, 
did  this  claim  refer  to  the  quality  of  the  stock 
from  which  he  sprang.  He  could  not  claim  this 
pride  of  birth  "in  the  way  some  fine  old  families 
claim  it  in  the  old  world  and  the  new,"  for  he 
counted  no  ancestors  of  princely  blood,  and  cher- 
ished no  monuments  of  by-gone  dignity  and 
prowess.  He  could  not  even  claim  the  kind  of 
noble  heritage  which  Rene  Vallery-Radot  had  in 
mind  when  he  declared,  in  his  "The  Life  of  Pas- 
teur," that  "the  origin  of  the  humblest  families 
can  be  traced  back  by  persevering  search  through 
the  ancient  parochial  registers."  ^  This  fact  of 
lineage  may  be  true  in  France,  where  peasant  life 
has  preserved  a  unique  type  of  indigenous  in- 
dividuality, but  it  is  certainly  not  true  in  Eng- 
land in  our  own,  or  in  an  elder,  day.  "We  can 
only  go  back,"  said  Dr.  Collyer,  "to  our  grand- 

*  Volume  I,  page  1. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  d 

fathers  on  both  sides  of  the  house."  And  what 
was  true  of  this  family  must  have  been  true  of 
many  another,  as  for  example  that  of  Sydney 
Smith,  in  the  eighteenth  and  early  nineteenth 
centuries. 

If  the  history  of  the  Collyer  clan  can  be  said 
to  have  any  definite  beginning,  it  is  in  the  in- 
dustrial revolution  which  marks  with  a  glory, 
only  surpassed  by  its  indescribable  shame,  the 
era  immediately  following  the  downfall  of  the 
first  Napoleon.  It  was  at  this  time,  w^hen  Eng- 
land's hands  were  free  from  foreign  wars  for 
activity  in  domestic  undertakings,  that  the  uses 
of  power  machinery  were  developed  on  a  vast 
scale,  and  factories  built  on  every  available  site 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  British 
Isles.  This  resulted  in  an  imperative  demand 
for  men,  women,  and  even  children,  to  operate 
the  wonderful  new  machines  in  the  mills;  and 
nowhere,  in  the  Ridings  of  Yorkshire  or  else- 
where, did  the  local  supply  of  labour  begin  to  sat- 
isfy the  needs  of  the  situation.  Therefore  the 
owners  of  the  factories,  with  the  permission  if 
not  the  actual  encouragement  of  the  govern- 
ment, went  scouring  through  the  country-sides, 
the  slums  of  the  cities,  and  especially  the  work- 
houses of  the  kingdom,  for  boys  and  girls;  and 
these  they  were  allowed  to  take  and  hold  as  ap- 


4  THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

prentices — the  boys  until  they  were  twenty-one, 
and  the  girls  until  they  were  eighteen,  years  of 
age,  on  condition  that  they  provided  their  wards 
with  food  and  shelter,  instructed  them  in  the 
three  R's,  and  taught  the  boys  a  trade  by  which 
they  could  support  themselves  after  their  release 
from  servitude. 

It  was  under  the  impulse  of  this  industrial  re- 
vival that  IMessrs.  Colbeck  and  Wilks  built  a 
factory  at  Blubberhouses,  a  small  village,  or  se- 
ries of  villages,  on  a  stream  called  the  Washburn, 
in  the  parish  of  Fewston,  some  ten  miles  across 
the  moors  from  the  Yorkshire  town  of  Ilkley. 
Searching  the  workhouses  of  the  great  cities  for 
children  to  yoke  to  the  spinning  frames,  these 
manufacturers  found  Samuel  Colly er  in  Lon- 
don, and  Harriett  Norman  in  "the  ancient  city 
of  Norwich,"  and  brought  them  north.  Both 
were  young,  the  boy  ten,  and  the  girl  nine  years 
of  age.  The  former,  however,  had  already  made 
himself  so  useful  in  the  workhouse,  that  the  of- 
ficers were  loath  to  let  him  depart;  and  so  surely 
did  he  display  his  cleverness  and  adaptability  in 
the  cotton  mill  at  Blubberhouses,  that  he  soon 
became  known  as  "the  chap"  to  handle  whatever 
chance  job  needed  to  be  done.  In  accordance 
with  the  regulations  of  the  time,  he  was  set  to 
learn  the  trade  of  blacksmith.    John  Birch,  who 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  5 

had  his  forge  inside  the  factory,  and  was  tenderly 
remembered  in  after  years  as  a  kind-hearted  fel- 
low who  always  had  a  scrap  of  food  in  his  can 
at  noon-tide  for  "Little  Sam,"  was  his  master; 
and  under  his  skilful  direction,  the  lad's  progress 
was  rapid. 

In  such  a  place  and  under  such  influences,  the 
boy,  Samuel,  and  the  girl,  Harriett,  grew  up 
side  by  side.  And  "it  came  to  pass,"  says  the 
Doctor,  "that  in  due  time  they  fell  in  love  with 
each  other";  "in  due  time"  also,  in  January, 
1823,  they  were  married.^  Two  miles  they 
trudged  together  to  Fewston  church,  when  the 
snow  was  so  heavy  upon  the  ground  that  in  places 
they  had  to  walk  on  the  top  of  the  stone  walls; 
and  two  miles  they  tiTidged  back  after  the  par- 
ish priest  had  made  them  one.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, and  in  view  of  the  fact  that  young 
Samuel  dearly  loved  a  drop  of  beer  and  his  pipe, 
it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  "lad  and  las- 
sie" stopped  at  the  Hopper  Lane  Hotel  on  their 
return  to  Blubberhouses,  and  took  a  "drop  o' 
summat  warm."  A  few  days  later,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  dispute  as  to  wages,  the  newly-wed- 
ded pair  removed  to  Keighley,  where  Collyer  had 

'  Harriett's  second  marriage.  Her  first  husband,  named  Wells, 
had  been  a  close  friend  of  Samuel  Collyer.  The  three  had  grown 
up  from  childhood  together, 


6  THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

found  work  in  Hattersley's  machine  shop  at  an 
advance  in  salary.  And  it  was  in  this  town,  on 
December  8th,  1823,  that  Robert,  the  first  child 
of  Samuel  and  Harriett,  was  born. 

It  was  as  the  offspring  of  these  two  orphaned 
factory-hands  that  Robert  Collyer  proclaimed 
himself  ''well  born."  "What  I  mean  by  being 
well  born  is  this,"  he  said,  "that  my  father  was 
one  of  the  most  healthful  men  I  have  ever  known, 
and  my  mother  was  one  of  the  most  healthful 
women."  "This  they  had  in  common,  they  were 
as  free  from  contagion  and  infections  as  the  stars. 
The  most  woful  fevers  would  break  out  in  the 
cottages  all  about  us,  and  our  neighbours  and 
their  children  would  die  of  them,  but  my  folks 
were  always  on  hand  to  help  them,  going  and 
coming  as  the  sunshine  goes  and  comes,  and  tak- 
ing no  special  precautions  to  guard  themselves 
against  the  peril,  yet  they  never  caught  a  fever, 
nor  did  any  of  their  children,  or  felt,  so  far  as  I 
remember,  the  slightest  fear.  So  this  is  how  I 
come  at  the  guess  that  we  were  well  born,  my 
father  and  my  mother  were  both  so  healthy."  .  .  . 
"In  taking  good  care  of  themselves  before  I  was 
born,"  said  the  Doctor  once,  "they  are  taking 
good  care  of  me  still,  and  have  been  through  all 
these  years." 

Samuel  Collyer,  the  father,  born  on  the  27th 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  7 

of  March,  1797,  the  same  day  and  the  same  year 
as  the  Emperor  Wilham  of  Prussia,  was  the  son 
of  one  Robert,  a  sailor  in  Lord  Nelson's  fleet. 
"iMy  father  would  tell  me,"  writes  the  grandson, 
"how  he  sat  on  his  shoulder  to  see  the  procession 
when  the  dust  of  the  great  Admiral  was  brought 
up  the  Thames  for  burial  in  St.  Paul's.  But  not 
long  after  this  my  grandsire,  going  to  sea  again, 
went  overboard  one  wild  night  in  a  great  storm." 
"My  grandmother  died  soon  after,  leaving  a 
family  of,  I  think,  five  children,  who  were  taken 
to  an  asylum  in  the  City  of  London  for  shelter 
and  nurture." 

"My  father's  eyes  were  brown,"  continues  the 
Doctor,  in  one  of  his  autobiographical  fragments, 
"and  were  full  of  a  steadfast  strength."  He  was 
an  active,  able,  strangely  silent  man — a  black- 
smith by  trade,  as  we  have  seen,  and  "as  good  a 
blacksmith,"  says  the  son,  "as  I  ever  knew,  a 
man  who  would  forge  no  lie  in  iron  or  steel.  But 
he  had  no  other  especial  faculty  I  can  remember 
now,  except  that  of  striking  the  tune  in  the  old 
meeting  house  on  the  hill,  and  even  then  you 
were  not  quite  sure  what  the  tune  would  prove 
to  be  until  he  got  to  the  end  of  the  first  line." 
He  had  very  little  education,  but  he  could  write, 
as  is  attested  by  his  signature  in  the  parish  reg- 
ister in  the  Fewston  church,  and  he  could  read 


8  THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

well  enough  to  read  the  Bible  not  too  haltingly 
to  a  Sunday-school  class  of  which  he  was  teacher. 
He  was  a  strong,  tough-sinewed  man,  and  yet 
gentle  withal  in  a  day  when  roughness  and  even 
brutality  were  common  enough.  "The  kindest 
heart  that  ever  beat  was  my  father's,"  said  Dr. 
Collyer  in  after  years.  *'He  never  thrashed  me 
but  once,  and  that  was  for  striking  my  sister,  and 
then  he  cried,  begged  my  pardon,  gave  me  a  six- 
pence and  took  me  to  a  grand  'tuck  out'  at  a  club 
dinner,  which  was  so  good  that  I  would  have 
taken  another  thrashing  for  the  like."  Another 
memory  was  of  his  father's  fondness  for  taking 
long  walks  with  the  children  over  the  moorlands 
on  Sunday  afternoons.  A  hard-working  man  all 
his  days,  he  died  suddenly  while  he  was  toiling 
at  his  anvil  on  a  blazing  July  day  in  1844. 

Robert  Collyer' s  mother,  like  his  father,  was 
also  the  child  of  a  sailor.  This  grandsire's  name 
was  Thomas  Norman,  "so  we  may,  perhaps,  date 
from  the  Conquest  too!"  "His  ship  went  down 
in  a  storm  with  all  on  board";  and  his  children, 
like  those  of  the  elder  Collyer,  found  their  way  in 
due  season  to  the  workhouse. 

The  daughter,  Harriett,  according  to  all  ac- 
counts, was  a  remarkable  woman.  ^     Certainly 

^  Dr.  Henry  W.  Bellows,  for  many  years  minister  of  All  Souls 
Church  in  New  York,  met  Dr.  Collyer  on  the  street  just  after  his 


"My  Mother" — R.  C. 

From  a  Photograph  of  Harriett  Colly er  taken  shortly  before 
her  death  in  187If 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  9 

her  eldest  son  sang  her  praises  early  and  late  in 
words  which  did  no  less  honour  to  his  filial  piety 
than  to  her  maternal  glory.  "My  mother,"  he 
wrote,  "was  a  woman  of  such  a  splendid  make 
and  quality,  that  I  still  wonder  whether  she  had 
ever  failed  in  anything  she  set  out  to  do.  I 
believe  if  she  had  been  ordered  to  take  charge  of 
a  70-gun  ship  and  carry  it  through  a  battle,  she 
would  have  done  it.  While  in  her  good  heart 
were  wells  of  humour  blended  of  laughter  and 
tears,  so  that  when  the  spirit  moved  (her)  the 
tears  would  stream  down  her  face — and  a  deep 
abiding  tenderness,  like  that  of  the  saints." 

While  the  father  "was  of  a  dark  complexion," 
the  mother  "was  a  blonde."  "My  mother's  eyes 
were  blue,  blended  of  grey,  and  could  snap  fire 
when  they  must  do  so  and  make  things  boom, 
while  the  family  nose  jutted  out  well  and  strong." 
In  a  charming  lecture  entitled  "My  Mother,"  Dr. 
Collyer  draws  a  picture  of  his  mother  as  he  re- 
called her  from  his  early  childhood  days  in  the 
Yorkshire  home.  "A  woman  with  flaxen  hair 
and  blue  eyes;  tall  to  the  child's  sight  and  full- 
chested,  with  a  damask  rose  bloom  mantling  her 
face ;  a  step  like  a  deer  for  lightness  and  strength, 
so  that  in  middle  age  she  could  walk  her  twenty 

return  from  a  visit  to  England.  "Ah,  Robert,"  he  said,  "now  I 
know  where  you  get  your  outfit.    I  saw  your  mother  in  Leeds." 


10        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

miles  in  a  day  over  the  hills  to  the  great  town 
of  Leeds ;  a  laugh  which  is  still  like  music  to  me, 
with  a  contagion  of  laughter  in  it  which  would 
start  the  whole  household — the  glance  of  a  poet 
into  the  heart  of  the  house  beautiful  all  about 
her,  and  within  all  a  deep  abiding  tenderness 
ready  to  spring  forth  as  her  crown  and  glory.  .  .  . 
And  she  had  also  such  a  genius  for  doing  well 
what  she  must  take  in  hand  that  I  think  still 
if  it  had  fallen  to  her  lot  and  her  training  to  gov- 
ern a  kingdom  she  would  have  made  a  noble 
queen  and  governed  it  well,  while  what  she  did 
govern  well  was  the  house  full  of  eager  and  out- 
breaking children  with  a  good  deal  of  the  Ber- 
seker  blood  in  them  as  I  have  reason  to  suspect — 
keeping  us  all  w^ell  in  hand  and  clearing  the  way 
for  us  into  the  world's  great  life  when  the  time 
came  to  go  forth;  seeing  to  it  that  we  were  well 
housed,  well  fed  and  well  clad  for  weekday  and 
Sunday,  while  the  school  wage  was  paid  for  us, 
so  long  as  we  could  be  spared  to  go  there,  out 
of  the  18  shillings  a  week  my  father  earned  in 
those  days  at  the  anvil." 

A  masterful  woman  in  all  things  practical! 
"But  she  had  in  her,  also,  wells  of  poesy,"  and 
the  deeper  and  truer  sensibilities  of  religion.  "I 
can  remember,"  says  Dr.  Collyer,  "a  dispute  I 
held  once  with  a  small  maiden  who  lived  next 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  11 

door,  over  the  rank  and  station  of  our  families, 
when  she  said,  'But  we  are  religious,'  and  I  took 
a  back  seat,  for  her  father  was  a  deacon,  and  we 
were  not  religious  in  that  way.  But  no  profane 
word  was  ever  spoken  in  the  house  or  learnt  out 
of  doors.  Mother's  training  in  this,  as  in  much 
beside,  was  so  perfect  that  I  think  it  was  not  until 
I  became  a  minister  that  I  could  freely  use  the 
most  sacred  name,  while  I  still  balk  at  such  words 
as  hell,  the  devil,  the  infernal.  And  two  things 
especially  Mother  held  sacred  among  many.  The 
day  comes  back  to  me  when  her  face  grew  stern 
and  her  voice  deep  with  rebuke.  It  was  when  one 
of  us  had  thrown  a  stray  leaf  from  some  old  Bible 
into  the  fire ;  and  another  day  when  in  some  petu- 
lant moment  I  threw  a  hard  crust  of  bread  into 
the  fire.  The  Bible  and  bread  were  among  her 
most  sacred  things,  and  I  think  salt  was  one 
also;  we  must  never  waste  salt. 

"And  the  day  came  in  my  mother's  long  wid- 
owhood," continues  the  Doctor,  "when  the  dear 
old  heart  found  rest  in  the  Baptist  fold  in  which 
she  died.  But  when  I  went  over  the  first  time 
(on  a  visit  from  America)  I  w^as  a  minister  in  a 
denomination  far  from  her  own.  I  must  also 
preach  at  our  great  church  at  Leeds  where  her 
home  was.  So  she  must  needs  go  and  hear  what 
I  had  to  say.     And  after  the  service,  as  she 


12        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

walked  home  leaning  on  my  arai,  she  said  softly, 
*My  lad,  I  didn't  quite  understand  thy  sermon, 
and  I  think  I  could  not  believe  thy  way  if  I  had 
understood  it.  But  then,'  giving  my  arm  a  warm, 
close  pressure,  she  concluded,  'I  want  thee  to 
feel  sure,  my  lad,  that  I  believe  in  thee.' 

"Well,  this  was  the  secret  of  Mother's  influ- 
ence toward  these  higher  things.  She  believed 
in  her  children,  and  gave  her  life  for  them  all 
radiant  with  her  love,  held  the  small  house  sacred 
for  us,  and  filled  it  with  such  good  cheer  as  she 
could  compass,  for  the  heart  as  for  all  the  rest." 

A  final  picture  of  this  adored  parent  is  given 
by  the  Doctor  in  an  account  of  his  first  visit  to 
England  from  America,  referred  to  above.  "I 
went  over  after  an  absence  of  fifteen  years,"  he 
says,  "to  see  my  mother.  She  was  sitting  in  the 
old  rocking  chair  where  she  had  nursed  all  her 
children,  but  could  not  rise  at  once,  because  the 
sudden  shock  of  her  joy  held  her  there  some  mo- 
ments, and  the  years  had  wrought  such  a  change 
in  me  that  she  looked  up  with  a  touch  of  wonder ; 
but  when  I  said  'Mother,'  she  held  out  her  arms 
and  cried,  'My  lad,  I  didn't  know  thy  face,  but 
I  know  thy  voice.'  "  This  was  in  1865.  They 
met  once  again  on  a  later  visit  to  the  old  country 
—in  1871.    She  died  in  July,  1874. 

Such  was  Robert  CoUyer's  mother — a  woman 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  13 

at  once  strong  and  tender,  like  the  son  whom  she 
brought  forth.  She  was  unquestionably  the  domi- 
nant element  in  the  union  of  husband  and  wife, 
and  therefore  the  determining  influence  in  the 
life  of  her  offspring — "the  better  half,"  certainly, 
"in  those  finer  powers  on  which  the  children  have 
to  draw  for  their  chance  in  life."  Lack  of  educa- 
tion— ^her  "mark"  in  the  parish  register  at  Few- 
ston  would  seem  to  indicate  that  she  could  not 
write,  at  least  in  her  early  days — seems  never  to 
have  hampered  her ;  character  in  her  walk  of  life 
and  field  of  action  was  an  all-sufficient  substitute 
for  learning.  "When  my  father  wanted  a  wife," 
says  the  Doctor,  summing  up  the  relationship  with 
rare  humour  and  understanding,  "he  didn't  want 
a  wax  doll.  He  wanted  a  woman  who  would  take 
care  of  him  and  make  him  toe  the  mark,  which  he 
did  like  a  good  fellow  to  the  end  of  his  life,  and 
never  suspected  he  was  not  at  the  head  of  that 
concern;  and  so  I  feel  very  much  obliged  to  him 
for  giving  me  my  mother,  though  I  suspect  he 
would  have  had  no  great  choice  if  she  had  first 
made  up  her  mind  to  marry  him,  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  this  was  not  the  way  the  thing  was  done. 
"When  these  two  were  made  one  all  those  years 
ago,  their  life  was  clear  from  what  we  call  now 
the  curse  of  heredity.  So  here  I  was  in  the  world, 
well  born/' 


14        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


CHAPTER  II 

WELL-RAISED 
1823-1831 

"When  I  ask  how  it  has  come  to  pass  that  I  have 
'wagged  my  jaw  in  a  poopit'  in  some  sort  these 
fifty-five  years — my  good  home  training,  I  say." — 
R.   C.  in  "Some  Memories/'  page   8. 

Samuel  and  Harriett  Collyer  did  not  long  re- 
main in  Keighley.  Within  a  month  after  the 
birth  of  Robert,  the  dispute  as  to  wages  had 
been  settled,  the  love  of  "the  old  place"  had  re- 
asserted itself,  and  the  young  father  and  mother, 
with  their  first-born  warmly  clad  against  the 
wintry  blasts,  were  trudging  back  over  the  moors 
to  Blubberhouses.  Here  in  the  Fewston  parish 
church,  on  January  29,  1824,  the  new  baby  was 
christened  by  the  vicar,  Mr.  Ramshaw,  at  a  bap- 
tismal font  which  is  still  standing  and  doing  ser- 
vice; and  here  in  Westhouse,  in  "a  cottage  of 
two  rooms  and  an  attic,  looking  right  into  the 
eye  of  the  sun,  and  away  to  the  westward  over 
the  great  purple  moors,"  he  lived  and  was  "well 
raised"  during  the  next  fourteen  years. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  15 

The  Yorkshire  district  in  which  Robert  Coll- 
yer  was  born  and  reared,  and  "every  mile"  of 
which  became  in  time  "familiar"  to  him,  was  a 
land  of  unusual  natural  features,  and  "sown 
thick  with  interest"  of  an  historical  and  literary 
character.  On  the  piles  of  crags  which  dot  the 
landscape  here  and  there,  may  be  seen  "the  curi- 
ous figures  of  the  cup  and  ring  you  find  in  the 
rocks  in  Central  America,  in  the  heart  of  Africa, 
in  India,  and  in  old  Scandinavia,  the  symbols  of 
a  religion  .  .  .  the  most  primitive  of  the  human 
race."  On  these  same  rocks  are  signs  which  in- 
dicate that  "they  were  the  high  places  of  the 
Druids  whom  Csesar  found  when  he  came  to  con- 
quer Britain."  Records  of  this  invasion  are  not 
lacking.  "They  dig  up  Roman  grave  stones  and 
altars,"  writes  the  Doctor,  "with  inscriptions  to 
the  local  deities  and  the  half -deified  emperors"; 
and  he  adds  that  "the  foundations  of  (Roman) 
dwellings  in  my  own  town  were  visible  within  a 
century."  "The  Saxons  followed  the  Romans"; 
and  in  626  came  a  Christian  missionary,  Pau- 
linus,  of  whom  the  three  curiously  carved  crosses, 
now  standing  in  the  Ilkley  church-yard,  are  a 
permanent  memorial. 

From  these  early  times,  the  currents  of  English 
history  ebbed  and  flowed  through  this  ancient  dis- 
trict, leaving  ineffaceable  traces  of  their  passage. 


16        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Here  are  venerable  homesteads,  "the  same  sort 
of  place,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  a  chim- 
ney, that  they  had  in  the  days  of  King  Alfred," 
and  inhabited  by  people  "who  live  on  the  lands 
where  their  fathers  lived  probably  before  the 
Conquest  and  who  can  be  traced  by  the  records 
through  700  years."  Here  are  the  tracks  of  the 
Percys  and  Cliffords,  who  came  and  went  on 
forays  or  in  the  chase.  Here  is  Townton  field, 
where  was  fought  on  Palm  Sunday,  1461,  "the 
last  great  struggle  between  the  white  rose  of 
York  and  the  red  rose  of  Lancaster,"  and  "no 
noise  of  battle  was  heard  in  the  little  church  of 
Saxton,  three  or  four  miles  on  one  side  of  the 
fatal  field."  And  here,  in  a  later  and  no  less 
tragic  age,  battled  the  Cavaliers  and  Puritans, 
with  one  old  mansion  at  least  still  showing  the 
secret  chambers  where  were  hidden  away  the 
priests  who  fled  the  Roundheads  of  Cromwell. 

Two  episodes  of  local  history  bind  this  district 
to  America.  "The  Town  (of  Ilkley ) ,"  writes  Dr. 
CoUyer,  "lies  very  sweetly  in  the  lap  of  the  dale, 
close  to  the  river,  with  a  wild  confusion  of  rocks 
to  the  south,  and  to  the  north  the  grand  old 
woods.  And  who  think  you  should  nestle  in 
there  time  out  of  mind  but  our  own  Longfellows. 
They  are  there  in  crabbed  Latin  when  the  oldest 
register  was  started  in  1580,  I  think;  and  before 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  17 

this,  John  Longfellow,  a  labouring  man,  in  1523 
gives  two  days'  wages  to  the  king  to  prosecute 
the  war  with  France,  and  his  two  days'  wages  are 
four  pence,  or  eight  cents,  which  reckoned  in  the 
money  of  our  time  would  not  be  quite  a  dollar. 
Some  paid  the  subsidy  and  some  did  not — it  was 
rather  a  matter  of  option.  But  not  with  John 
Longfellow,  who  no  doubt  had  the  old  Saxon 
peasant's  ever  smouldering  wrath  in  him  against 
the  French.  .  .  .  They  linger  long  in  the  town, 
but  there  is  none  there  now;  the  branch,  or  root 
rather,  that  was  transplated  to  the  new  world, 
left  early  and  stayed  in  a  little  town  hard  by 
perhaps  100  years,  and  then  came  over  here  to 
give  us  our  great  poet. 

"Then  our  dale  throws  out  another  strand 
which  winds  about  a  life  of  the  deepest  interest 
to  us,  the  life  of  Washington.  This  strand  is 
spun  by  the  Fairfax  family,  who  for  many  hun- 
dred years  lived  only  a  mile  away  from  the  hum- 
ble nest  of  the  Longfellows,  in  a  grand  old  place 
across  the  river.  ...  I  know  no  other  house  to 
set  beside  it  anywhere ;  all  the  ways  are  thronged 
with  men  on  errands  of  life  and  death.  .  .  . 
Black  Tom  Fairfax  (was)  the  great  rose  dia- 
mond in  the  crown  of  their  glory,  the  best  fighter 
and  most  potent  general  after  Cromwell  in  the 
strife  between  the  people  and  the  crown,  ,  ,  , 


18        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

He  starved  the  Cavaliers  out  of  their  holdings, 
and  cleared  the  north  and  held  it  with  the  yeo- 
men and  clothiers  at  his  back,  until  Cromwell 
began  to  lead  and  govern."  Nor  should  Edward 
Fairfax,  "who  translated  Tasso  (the  best  ever 
made),"  be  forgotten. 

"And  so  who  shall  say,"  exclaims  the  Doctor, 
"that  our  quiet  dale,  hidden  among  the  moors 
for  so  many  ages,  does  not  catch  a  fine  lustre  at 
last,  and  take  its  place  in  the  history  of  the  grand 
old  mother  land!"  And  w^io  shall  say  that  the 
story  of  this  loyal  son  of  the  dale,  w^ho  tells  these 
tales  of  other  days  with  such  delight,  does  not 
add  to  their  "fine  lustre,"  and  bind  with  still  an- 
other strand  the  Yorkshire  country  to  America! 

More  important,  however,  for  our  purposes, 
than  historical  associations,  are  the  natural  fea- 
tures of  this  district  in  which  Robert  Collyer 
spent  his  early  years.  These  have  been  made 
more  or  less  familiar  to  readers  of  English  liter- 
ature by  the  life  and  writings  of  Charlotte 
Bronte.  "The  land  which  was  so  familiar  to 
her,"  says  the  Doctor,  "was  familiar  to  me.  The 
bells  in  our  churches  rang  over  the  wild  moors 
together,  through  the  same  summer  sunshine  and 
winter  storm.  We  saw^  the  same  bracken 
brighten  in  the  glens  that  were  so  glorious  in  her 
eyes,   and  the  same  starry  flowers  spangle  the 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  19 

pastures.  But  her  father  never  came  to  our 
church  to  preach  in  my  time,  nor  was  the  family 
known  among  us,  and  the  little  town  of  Haworth 
lay  so  far  away,  near  as  it  was,  and  was  withal 
so  desolate  in  those  days  and  hard  to  live  in,  that 
I  remember  it  only  through  seeing  it  there  on  the 
cold  shoulder  of  the  hill,  and  hearing  the  sweet 
jangle  of  the  bells  smiting  through  the  still  sun- 
shine, as  I  sat  reading  or  musing  among  the 
heather.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to  climb  the  hill 
above  my  home  and  then  the  music  so  sweet  when 
you  hear  it  through  the  far  distances  would  melt 
and  blend  where  you  stood,  while  you  could  easily 
see  the  square  black  tower  of  the  church  of  which 
her  father  was  vicar  standing  up  against  the 
moors  and  the  sky. 

"A  dale  is  a  low  place  between  hills,  Dr.  John- 
son says;  but  you  w^ould  say,  if  you  saw  one,  it 
is  a  sort  of  civilised  and  humanised  canyon,  civi- 
lised by  nature,  for  the  dales  are  not  so  savage  as 
canyons,  and  humanised  because  those  who  have 
lived  in  them  time  out  of  mind,  have  managed  to 
sow  them  thick  with  the  lights  and  shadows  of  our 
human  life. 

"And  they  are  to  be  found  under  this  name 
only  in  the  north  of  England,  where  a  great  deal 
of  the  land  is  taken  up  by  wild  moors  that  lift 
themselves  from  1,000  to  3,000  feet  above  the  sea. 


20        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

sweeping  away  into  the  blue  distance  like  rough 
rolling  prairies.  These  moors  are  covered  with 
heather,  a  sort  of  low  brush  touched  with  green 
in  the  spring,  and  in  the  summer  all  purple  with 
blossom,  so  that  the  moors  seem  to  reflect  the 
blueness  of  the  sky;  while  here  and  there  you 
come  to  masses  of  grey  crag  that  look  in  the  far 
distance  like  the  ruins  of  old  fortresses  piled 
against  the  heavens  in  the  days  when  there  were 
giants  on  the  earth.  .  .  .  The  grouse  live  on 
(these  moors),  ...  a  small  breed  of  sheep  very 
good  to  eat  when  they  are  young,  and  bees  which 
gather  honey  of  an  exquisite  flavour  from  the 
heather. 

"Running  through  the  moors  from  the  high 
lands  in  the  west  eastward,  you  find  these  dales, 
deep  grooves  cut  by  the  action  of  the  water 
through  a  time  of  which  we  can  form  no  concep- 
tion. They  are  quite  narrow  where  the  rivers  rise, 
and  entirely  true  to  Wordsworth's  lines  about 
them — 

Yorkshire  dales 
Among  the  rocks  and  winding  scaurs 
Where  deep  and  low  the  hamlets  lie 
Each  with  their  little  patch  of  sky 
And  little  lot  of  stars.' 

But  they  open  out  wide  and  fair  to  the  sun  as 
they  sweep  eastward,  and  then,  as  it  seems  to  me, 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  21 

nothing  can  be  more  lovely.  The  snow-drops  ap- 
pear in  the  warm  nooks  sooner  than  they  do  here 
in  the  sunny  comers  on  the  Hudson.  On  the 
slopes  stand  great  woods,  with  oaks  in  them  that 
may  have  seen  the  Crusaders,  and  these  woods  all 
summer  long  are  as  full  of  singing  birds  as  they 
can  hold.  The  black  bird  will  whistle  to  you  from 
the  thorn,  and  the  throstle  from  the  crab  tree,  and 
the  sky  lark  will  rain  down  melody  on  you  from 
the  white  clouds  as  if  it  was  a  bird  singing  in 
paradise,  so  wonderfully  do  his  showers  of  music 
fall  from  the  tiny  speck  between  your  eyes  and 
the  infinite  deep  blue,  while  the  swallow  will  chirp 
from  the  thatch  of  the  cottage,  and  the  jackdaw 
squawk  from  the  old  castle  wall,  and  about  this 
time  the  cuckoo  will  hide  in  the  coverts  and  sound 
his  curious  note. 

"To  me,  you  may  be  sure,  it  is  a  lovely  land. 
And  yet  about  as  wild  as  you  would  wish  to  see, 
and  as  desolate.  .  .  .  Tourists  go  there  only  in 
the  summer  and  see  the  landscape  touched  with 
the  lively  greys  and  decked  in  purple  and  gold; 
but  there  is  another  sight  they  never  see  and  that 
is  the  long  dreary  fall  and  winter.  About  the 
end  of  September  the  skies  grow  heavy  with  fogs 
and  mists  that  linger  until  January,  and  through 
the  most  of  these  weeks  this  fog  and  mist  lies  on 
the  land  like  a  vast  sombre  blanket  which  pre- 


22        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

vents  the  smoke  from  rising  above  the  forges  and 
factories,  until  it  lies  so  thick  sometimes  that  my 
mother  used  to  say  you  could  cut  it  with  a  knife. 
You  can  always  make  sure  of  about  three  months 
of  this  weather,  and  then  three  months  of  winter, 
with  but  very  little  of  the  clear  and  deep  splen- 
dour which  makes  the  winters  so  welcome  to  the 
strong  and  warm-blooded  over  here.  .  .  .  And 
then  after  the  winter  comes  the  spring  when 
through  March  and  April  the  east  wind  sweeps 
in  from  Russia  in  a  way  which  would  make  those 
who  live  in  Boston  think  their  east  wind  was 
hardly  more  than  a  summer  zephyr.  The  poor 
folks  who  have  to  face  this  wind  have  a  rhyme 
about  it — 

'When  the  wind  is  in  the  east, 
It's  neither  good  for  man  nor  beast.' 

It  is  such  a  wind  as  the  prophet  must  have  had 
in  his  mind,  one  thinks,  when  he  said,  'the  Lord 
stayeth  his  strong  wind  in  the  day  of  his  east 
wind,'  as  if  he  thought  that  even  the  divinest 
grace  a  man  can  attain  to  would  be  lost  out  of 
him  if  he  had  to  stand  such  a  wind  when  it  blew 
up  a  hurricane.  .  .  . 

"Then  there  is  the  rain!  For,  catching  the 
vapours  alike  from  the  German  Ocean  and  the 
Irish  Sea,  these  hills  and  moors  distil  the  rains 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  23 

so  as  to  make  you  feel  it  will  never  stop  raining, 
and  so  far  you  are  seldom  at  fault  in  your  judg- 
ment. The  long  days  of  clear  sunshine  we  have 
over  here,  when  the  atmosphere  quivers  with  the 
sun's  splendour,  are  very  seldom  seen  in  my  dale. 
The  most  bitter  trials  of  my  boyhood  were  the 
wet  days.  The  good  mother  would  say.  You  can 
make  such  a  visit  if  it  is  a  fine  day,  but  it  seems 
to  me  now  it  never  was  a  fine  day  by  any  accident. 
Talk  about  the  laws  of  rain  and  sunshine !  There 
are  no  such  laws  in  the  dales,  only  of  rain,  rain 
driving  over  the  hills,  rain  sweeping  down  the 
valleys,  a  bit  of  sunshine  now  and  then,  and  then 
more  rain.  But  then  when  you  do  get  a  day  or 
a  week  of  clear  sunshine,  you  know  how  to  value 
it.  You  feel  as  though  you  were  looking  right 
into  heaven,  the  air  dances  and  quivers  on  the 
moors  like  a  vast  translucent  sea,  the  green  moss- 
es at  your  feet  are  softer  than  all  tapestry,  the 
meadows  and  pastures  are  a  wonder  of  the  love- 
liest greenery,  the  hedge  rows  foam  with  wild 
blossoms,  and  in  the  barest  reaches  the  gorse 
blooms  into  a  golden  glory.  .  .  . 

"And  that  is  my  dale!  River  and  meadows, 
grand  old  woods  and  pastures,  old  stone  bridges 
which  in  my  day  it  would  almost  break  the  heart 
of  a  horse  to  cross  with  a  load,  so  steep  they  were 
up  to  the  centre,  old  halls  and  castles  and  church 


24        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

towers  and  cottages  that  reach  back  to  the  times 
of  the  Saxons,  all  threaded  through  and  through 
with  stretches  of  road  the  Romans  made." 

Not  less  interesting  than  the  land  were  the 
people  on  the  land.  The  peasant's  cottage  was 
"a  place  usually  of  four  rooms,  but  often  also  of 
two,  built  of  grey  stone  that  defies  all  weathers, 
and  covered  with  thatch  instead  of  shingles.  .  .  . 
The  floors  are  not  boarded,  but  covered  with 
great  flags,  and  these  with  fine  sand  for  a  car- 
pet. The  walls  are  white-washed  once  a  year  by 
the  women,  never  by  the  men.  A  rude  picture 
or  two  is  on  the  walls,  a  great  rack  for  the  pewter 
dishes  and  willow  ware  ...  a  settee  of  black 
oak  and  a  chair  to  match  of  a  fearful  discomfort 
with  rude  carvings  and  a  date  which  may  be  of 
the  time  of  Elizabeth  or  James,  an  open  fire  al- 
ways, for  stoves  are  not  known,  a  great  rack 
above  you  for  oaten  bread,  and  the  meats  for 
steady  use  are  hung  from  the  beams. 

**Let  us  go  in,"  continues  Dr.  Collyer,  "and 
see  an  old  friend  of  mine,  who  is  now  in  his  90th 
year!  His  dress  you  will  notice  is  the  Saxon 
peasant's  dress  with  but  little  alteration.  Hear 
the  old  gentleman  talk  and  they  would  probably 
understand  him  better  in  Denmark  than  you  will. 
.  .  .  When  (he)  dies,  he  will  give  commandment 
concerning  his  bones,  and  have  everything  done 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  25 

after  the  old  fashion.  .  .  .  He  will  leave  orders 
for  plenty  of  spiced  bread  to  be  made,  and  cut  in 
great  wedges  from  the  loaf,  and  plenty  of  spiced 
ale  to  be  served  round  in  the  old  silver  tankards, 
and  everybody  will  be  expected  to  enjoy  himself, 
and  this  they  will  do  who  are  not  very  near  of  kin 
to  him,  for  this  is  the  last  long  lingering  echo  and 
refrain  from  the  funeral  feasts  of  the  pagans  a 
thousand  years  ago.  If  it  is  winter,  there  will  be 
no  flowers,  only  sprigs  of  evergreen,  but  if  it  is 
summer,  they  will  deck  his  shroud  as  they  did  in 
Shakespeare's  day  with  rosemary  and  pansies, 
violets  and  sweet  thyme,  and  rue  and  columbines 
and  daisies.  And  as  they  bear  him  away  to  the 
burial,  the  old  neighbours  and  friends  will  sing 
old  funeral  chants  as  they  go  through  the  lanes 
that  Job  might  have  written  and  Jeremiah  set  to 
music,  they  are  so  doleful. 

"This  is  the  daleman  of  the  old  sturdy  breed 
who  still  lingers  in  the  more  secluded  nooks,  and 
clings  to  the  ancient  ways.  He  mows  his  grain 
with  the  scythe,  and  reaps  his  grain  with  the 
sickle,  and  all  modern  inventions  are  an  abomina- 
tion. .  .  .  He  never  saw  a  steamboat,  and  he 
hates  the  French  though  he  could  not  tell  you 
why.  .  .  .  He  is  as  honest  as  the  day,  but  he 
has  steadily  killed  the  game  when  he  got  his 
chance,  because  that  was  what  the  Norman  took 


26        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

from  him,  and  he  will  have  it  back.  He  brews  his 
own  beer  and  makes  his  own  mead.  He  covers 
the  little  mirror  when  one  of  his  family  dies,  and 
whispers  the  tidings  to  the  bees  in  the  garden. 
He  saves  a  bit  of  the  old  yule  log  to  kindle  the 
new  at  Christmas,  and  will  let  no  fire  go  out  of 
his  dwelling  between  old  Christmas  day  and 
twelfth  night,  eats  boiled  wheat  and  honey  on 
Christmas  eve,  and  has  the  singers  round  on 
Christmas  morning  to  sing  the  old  carols.  .  .  . 
He  believes  in  witches  and  ghosts,  thinks  if  he 
pays  the  parson  his  tithes  promptly,  then  the 
parson  will  see  that  he  comes  to  no  harm  here- 
after, goes  when  it  suits  him  to  what  he  calls 
't'  church,'  and  says  his  prayers,  and  that  is  his 
religion.  Only  this  is  to  be  understood,  that 
he  will  not  fight  for  any  creed  man  ever  made. 
No  ghost  of  a  martyr  haunts  our  dale. 

"So  he  has  lived,  and  so  he  will  die,  and  so  his 
fathers  lived  before  him."  Changes  have  come 
— came  even  in  Dr.  Collyer's  day.  But  "these 
things,"  he  says,  "are  all  on  the  surface.  The 
main  bulk  (of  the  people)  keep  to  the  old  ways, 
and  raise  generations  of  blue-eyed,  sunny-haired 
and  deep-chested  men  and  women,  sending  the 
overplus  to  people  new  lands." 

It  was  in  such  a  country,  and  amid  such  peo- 
ple, that  Robert  Collyer  passed  his  years  of  boy- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  27 

hood  and  youth.  The  particular  neighbourhood 
in  which  he  hved  until  his  fourteenth  year,  inele- 
gantly dubbed  Blubberhouses,  consisted  of  a 
series  of  factory  towns,  or  hamlets,  running  along 
the  banks  of  the  Washburn,  in  the  Washburn- 
dale,  one  of  the  deepest  and  fairest  of  the  val- 
leys of  the  famous  Yorkshire  moors.  The  people 
in  these  towns,  nearly  all  of  them  workers  in 
the  wool,  cotton  and  linen  mills  established  here 
in  the  early  days  of  the  industrial  epoch  because 
of  the  abundant  water-power,  numbered  several 
thousand  souls,  all  told.  West  End,  a  village 
on  the  road  from  Pateley  to  Bolton  Bridge,  alone 
had  a  population  of  two  thousand.  The  towns, 
located  close  to  one  another  along  the  flowing 
stream,  were  practically  identical  in  appearance 
— a  group  of  ugly  factory  buildings  on  the  riv- 
er's edge,  and  back  of  them  and  around  them, 
on  a  succession  of  terraces,  long  rows  of  cot- 
tages in  which  lived  the  workers.  These  cot- 
tages were  invariably  of  the  stone-wall,  thatched- 
roof  type  described  above.  Here  and  there 
among  them,  however,  usually  at  the  end  of  a 
row  of  dwellings,  appeared  structures  of  a  more 
commodious  and  impressive  type.  Dr.  Collyer, 
in  later  years,  described  one  of  these,  the  home 
of  a  foreman,  Thomas  Scotson,  as  "a  house  of 
some  dignity,  thick  clad  with  ivy,  where  the  spar- 


28        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

rows  nested  in  great  numbers  and  made  a  cheer- 
ful racket  on  summer  mornings";  and  another, 
the  home  of  Michael  Robinson,  a  manager  of  one 
of  the  factories,  located  "at  the  western  end  of 
the  terrace,"  as  a  house  which  "had  a  low  win- 
dow framed  in  roses,"  and  which  "seemed  to  our 
young  eyes  a  very  grand  place  indeed."  Other 
more  conspicuous  structures  were  the  workhouse, 
"a  very  commodious  building  considering  the 
size  of  the  hamlets,"  the  chapel  by  the  bridge  at 
West  End,  a  large  gasmetre  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  Blubberhouses  bridge,  "which  sup- 
plied the  mill  and  a  large  number  of  cottages 
with  light,"  and  a  hostel,  called  the  Gate  Inn, 
centre  of  village  celebrations  and  festivals,  in 
front  of  which  on  the  big  arm  of  a  giant  syca- 
more swung  a  sign  bearing  the  symbol  of  a  minia- 
ture five-barred  gate,  with  the  legend, 

"This  gate  hangs  well  and  hinders  none, 
Refresh  and  pay,  and  travel  on." 

Back  of  all,  on  either  side  of  the  river,  were  the 
long  slopes  to  the  uplands,  where  on  summer 
days  the  birds  sang  and  the  heather  bloomed,  and 
by  night,  when  the  noise  of  the  factory  wheels 
was  stilled,  came  the  wondrous  silence  of  the 
stars.  This  was  a  busy  dale,  in  Robert  Collyer's 
boyhood  days.    Before  he  had  left  England  for 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  29 

America,  however,  the  blight  of  competition  had 
ruined  the  thriving  industries  and  scattered  the 
people;  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  full 
tide  of  manhood,  the  hamlets  had  become  as  "the 
deserted  village"  of  Goldsmith.  The  mills  were 
silent  and  unoccupied,  the  chapel  a  mouldy  and 
rotting  wreck,  and  the  sturdy  stone  cottages  un- 
tenanted save  by  the  birds  which  perched  on 
roofs  and  chimney-tops  and  alone  recalled  the 
animation  of  former  days.  In  the  '70s  the  Leeds 
Corporation  bought  the  property  for  the  safe- 
guarding of  the  water  supply  of  the  great  city 
— and  the  history  of  Blubberhouses  was  definitely 
closed ! 

It  was  in  the  hey-day  of  the  material  pros- 
perity of  these  hamlets  in  the  Washburndale, 
that  Robert  Collyer  was  born  and  reared.  The 
cottage  which  Samuel  Collyer  took  for  his  home, 
after  his  return  from  the  temporary  flight  to 
Keighley,  was  a  two-room  stone  structure,  as 
we  have  seen,  with  a  low  attic,  or  loft,  overhead. 
"There  was  a  bit  of  greensward"  in  front,  with 
"a  clump  of  roses  set  about  with  wall-flowers, 
pinks  and  sweet  Williams.  There  was  a  plum- 
tree,  also,  branching  about  the  windows. 

"Within  doors  there  was  a  bright  open  fire, 
and  the  walls  of  the  living  room  were  w^hite  as 
driven  snow.    A  floor  of  flags  so  clean  that  you 


30        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

could  eat  your  dinner  on  it  most  times  and  only- 
hurt  the  floor,  and  a  bureau  and  chairs  so  bright 
that  they  shone  like  dim  mirrors.  A  tall  clock 
which  was  always  too  fast  at  bed  time  and  in  the 
mornings,  and  always  too  slow  at  meal  time.  A 
lot  of  the  old  willow  pattern  pottery  ware  on  a  rack 
against  the  wall  for  the  holidays;  and  pictures 
which  must  have  cost  half  a  dollar  each,  pictures 
Rubens  could  not  have  painted  to  save  him. 
These  was  Moses  looking  like  old  King  George 
III,  and  drawn  with  a  pair  of  legs  no  man  could 
walk  on  without  crutches,  and  Peter  with  a  green 
beard." 

The  tasks  of  housekeeping  in  this  little  home 
were  performed  with  a  Puritan  conscience  and  a 
cheery  heart.  "I  still  mind,"  says  the  Doctor, 
"how  twice  in  the  year  (my  mother)  would  make 
the  walls  in  the  living  rooms  white,  as  I  still  see 
them,  with  quick  lime,  the  dire  enemy  of  the 
fever  which  would  invade  other  homes  but  never 
ours,  while  in  all  things  else  her  feast  of  puri- 
fication belted  the  whole  year,  but  never  at  the 
cost  of  comfort  or  cosiness  in  the  small  place, 
tight  and  trim  as  a  ship's  cabin.  .  .  .  There  was 
fair  white  linen  and  calico,  first  to  wear  and  then 
to  sleep  in.  And  until  we  could  see  to  it  ourselves, 
once  a  week  there  was  the  tub  where  we  had  a 
good  sound  scrubbing  with  yellow  soap  that  got 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  81 

into  your  eyes,  and  a  stout  'harden'  towel  to  dry 
off  withal,  so  that  now  when  I  think  of  our  'cot- 
ter's Saturday  night,'  the  words  of  the  wise  man 
are  apt  to  come  back  to  me,  '.Who  hath  red  eyes, 
who  hath  contention,  who  hath  strife?'  Well,  I 
answer,  we  had  once  a  week,  when  we  turned  in- 
to that  tub  with  my  mother  to  work  it,  while  there 
was  but  scant  comfort  in  the  words  she  would 
say  as  a  sort  of  benediction,  'There  now,  children, 
cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness.'  But  in  that  tub, 
in  the  fair  sweet  linen,  in  the  snow-white  purity 
of  fresh  lime,  and  in  the  everlasting  scrubbing 
of  the  things  we  had  about  us,  lies  one  fair  rea- 
son to  my  own  mind,  .  .  .  why  in  all  these  years 
I  have  not  been  one  day  sick  in  my  bed." 

Life  within  this  home  was  as  plain  and  simple 
as  it  was  clean.  The  income  was  small,  a  scant 
18  shillings  ($4.50)  per  week,  and  a  family  of  six  ^ 
"in  the  earlier  years,  to  make  good  the  old  rhyme 
Mother  would  croon  over  us  now  and  then — 

'Four  is  good  company,  five  is  a  charge, 
Six  is  a  family,  seven's  too  large.' 

But  I  think  she  would  have  refitted  the  rhyme 
to  the  reason  if  there  had  been  more.  .  .  .  We 

*Four  boys,  William  (a  half-brother  by  Mrs.  Collyer's  first  mar- 
riage), Robert,  Thomas  and  John;  and  two  girls,  Martha  and 
Maria.  There  was  a  seventh  and  last  child  still-born  at  about  the 
time  when  Maria  was  four  years  old. 


32        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

came  along  with  the  most  lovely  regularity,  about 
two  years  apart.  .  .  .  But  my  mother  made  that 
income  stand  good  for  plenty  to  eat  and  drink, 
two  suits  of  clothes,  one  for  week-days  and  one 
for  Sundays,  house  rent  and  fire."  And  ''how 
did  we  fare,  the  six  hearty  children?  There  was 
oatmeal,  and  what  we  call  mush  who  know  no 
better,  and  skim-milk  in  plenty,  with  oatcake,  as 
Mother  would  say,  to  fill  in  with;  also  wheaten 
bread  for  more  careful  use,  and  sometimes  a  trace 
of  butter.  Not  much  meat,  for  meat  was  dear, 
but  soup  with  dumplings,  and  what  the  old  York- 
shire folk  used  to  call  'sike-like,'  a  word  with  a 
wide  meaning.  And  the  tradition  still  remains 
of  an  early  time  of  innocency  when  Mother  would 
say,  'Those  who  eat  the  most  dumpling  shall 
have  the  most  meat.'  So  we  would  peg  away  un- 
til we  did  not  want  any  meat,  and  then  Mother 
would  save  it  for  the  next  day's  dinner.  There 
was  fruit  also  when  this  was  cheap,  in  the  lovely 
guise  of  pie,  and  then  more  oatmeal  and  skim- 
milk  for  supper.  And  that  was  how  we  fared." 
But  there  was  another  item  the  week's  wage 
must  cover — that  of  schooling,  for  the  education 
of  the  little  ones  was  not  free  in  those  days  as 
it  is  to-day.  "You  must  pay  so  much  a  week  or 
go  ignorant."  These  hard-working  parents, 
however,  believed  in  "book-learning";  and  until 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  33 

young  Robert  was  eight  years  of  age,  the  charge 
for  schooling  was  carefully  laid  aside  and  paid 
each  week.  First,  the  boy  went  to  school  to 
*'Dame  Horsman,  at  the  Scaife  House,  in  Blub- 
berhouses,  an  old  lady  in  spectacles,  who  had  a 
reel  in  a  bottle,  and  I  do  not  know  yet  how  it 
got  in."  Later  he  went  to  a  master's  school  half 
a  mile  away.  This  was  soon  closed,  the  master 
going  to  other  parts;  and  then  Robert  was  old 
enough  to  tramp  two  miles  down  the  dale  to 
Fewston,  where  he  studied  the  three  R's  under 
(and  very  much  under)  Will  Hardy,  "who  found 
me,"  says  the  Doctor,  "a  sad  dunce  at  figures, 
which  he  believed  in,  but  good  at  things  in  books 
which  struck  my  fancy.  They  didn't  strike  his 
fancy,  however,  so  he  would  give  nie  his  knife 
to  go  and  cut  nice  hazels  along  with  another 
scapegrace  named  Robinson  Gill,  who  taught  me 
how  to  shave  them  at  the  line  of  their  finest  im- 
pact with  one's  shoulders,  and  things  of  that 
sort." 

Will  Hardy  was  evidently  very  much  of  a 
"character."  He  was  equally  noted  for  his  hide- 
ously crippled  legs,  and  his  imcomparable  fid- 
dling. "I  well  remember  his  grave,  stern-look- 
ing face,"  says  the  Doctor,  "as  he  sat  perched 
aloft  in  the  large  rooms  of  the  inns  at  Blubber- 
houses  and  Fewston,  giving  the  music  as  the 


84        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

dance  went  round."  In  the  treatment  of  his  pu- 
pils he  was  a  discipHnarian  of  the  old  school. 
He  had  a  strange  gleam  in  his  grey  eyes,  and 
was  a  "great  marksman  with  the  ferule.  There 
was  no  use  dodging.  If  you  did,  the  ferule  would 
find  you  out,  and  thump  you  all  the  harder."  ^ 

It  is  the  testimony  of  his  most  distinguished 
student,  however,  that  Mr.  Hardy  was  "a  good 
teacher."  Later  on,  when  he  opened  a  night 
school  at  Blubberhouses,  young  Robert,  no  longer 
free  for  day  instruction,  entered  his  classes.  A 
final  winter  at  night  school,  after  he  had  left 
home,  completed  his  education. 

Other  influences,  however,  brought  to  him  their 

*  Years  later,  Robert  Collyer  and  Robinson  Gill,  then  both  living 
in  America,  hunted  out  "old  Willie  Hardy,"  in  one  of  their  visits 
to  "the  old  home."  They  found  him,  grown  very  feeble,  sitting 
in  a  chimney  corner. 

"Is  this  Willie  Hardy?"  they  said. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"And  how  are  you  getting  on,  sir?" 

"Middling  well  for  an  auld  man.  But  who  are  ye?  I  don't 
knaw  your  faces." 

"It's  Robinson  Gill  and  Robert  Collyer.  We  were  your  scholars 
lang  syne";  and  then,  with  a  laugh,  they  said:  "We  have  come 
to  settle  the  old  account  of  the  lickings  you  gave  us." 

The  tears  sprang  to  the  old  eyes,  with  the  gleam  in  them  still, 
as  he  said,  "Nae  lads,  ye  will  not  do  that.  I's  an  old  man  now, 
and  time  has  settled  that  bill  a  long  while  ago." 

"But  you  will  play  us  a  tune  on  the  old  fiddle?" 

"Ay,  gladly,"  he  answered.  So  they  had  many  tunes,  and  Mr. 
Gill,  who  was  a  rich  man,  settled  the  bill  in  good  gold. 


^     CO 
CO 

W   Si, 

w  i 


or  ROBERT  COLLYER  35 

training  and  inspiration.  There  was  the  Sunday 
school,  for  example,  which  was  "the  only  divinity 
school  (he)  ever  had  the  opportunity  to  attend." 
Although  his  parents  were  married,  and  their 
children  baptised,  in  the  Anglican  communion, 
the  family  went  to  the  parish  church  only  twice 
in  the  year,  on  Easter  and  Whitsuntide.  The  dis- 
tance undoubtedly  had  much  to  do  with  this  fact, 
but  it  may  be  true  also  that  old  Parson  Ram- 
shaw  was  not  much  to  the  liking  of  Samuel  Coll- 
yer  and  his  good  wife.  "He  was  one  of  the  old 
rough  *church-among-the-mountains'  parsons," 
says  the  Doctor.  "There  were  traditions  of  wild 
scrapes  in  his  early  days,  such  as  a  baby  born 
within  a  few  weeks  of  his  marriage  to  his  house- 
keeper, a  very  handsome  woman,  daughter  of  a 
neighbouring  farmer;  and  of  his  shooting  a  don- 
key's ears  off  once  when  he  was  in  his  cups,  mis- 
taking them  for  a  pair  of  moor  birds  as  they  were 
cropping  up  over  a  level  wall.  But  in  my  time, 
'30-'38,  he  was  an  old  man,  with  a  lot  of  wild  sons, 
very  handsome,  and  a  daughter  in  the  church- 
yard, to  whose  grave-stone  a  boy  took  me  one  day 
between  school  hours,  and  told  me  in  a  whisper, 
*she  deed  heart-broken  for  young  Jen  Hardisty' 
(a  peasant  lad  who  was  then  about  there) .  That 
was  my  earliest  romance,"  continues  the  Doctor. 
"Ramshaw  was  no  preacher.     He  gave  out  his 


36        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

text  and  just  yelled  through  a  lot  of  words  of 
which  I  could  make  neither  head  nor  tail.  He 
never  came  to  our  house,  or  did  much  of  anything 
but  shoot." 

It  was  pleasanter  on  the  whole  to  attend  Sun- 
day services  at  "the  little  dissenting  chapel  on  the 
hill,"  and  here  the  Collyer  family  went  regularly. 
"My  mother,"  writes  the  Doctor,  "always  made  a 
pretty  curtsey  before  she  went  into  our  pew,  and 
my  father  a  bow  towards  the  east  window,  but 
didn't  know  why,  except  that  it  was  ^manners'; 
while  I  fear  that  I  spent  most  of  my  time  wonder- 
ing over  a  white  dove  with  a  very  pink  beak  that 
was  perched  on  the  high-point  of  the  sounding 
board  over  the  pulpit,  trying  also  to  verify  the 
unicorn  in  the  king's  arms,  and  waiting  to  hear 
the  old  clerk  say.  Amen."  Sunday  school  twice 
every  Sunday  "with  no  rewards  and  no  picnics" 
was  the  programme  for  the  little  ones.  With  mod- 
ern folk  in  our  own  country,  for  reasons  never 
quite  clear,  such  routine  is  usually  fatal  to  reli- 
gious development.  But  with  the  Collyer  clan  in 
rural  Yorkshire,  it  seems  to  have  been  different. 
"I  really  know  of  nothing  outside  my  good  home," 
is  the  testimony  of  the  Robert  of  later  years, 
"which  can  compare  in  pure  worth  to  my  steady 
training  through  about  ten  years  in  that  good 
old  orthodox  Sunday  school." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  37 

More  precious,  however,  than  day  school,  or 
night  school,  or  Sunday  school,  was  the  every- 
day school  in  the  home  itself.  Here  the  hard- 
w^orking,  taciturn  father  was  a  steadying  in- 
fluence in  the  direction  of  obedience,  patience  and 
self-control,  w^hile  the  mother  served  as  the  un- 
failing source  of  stimulus  and  inspiration.  She 
it  was  who  taught  the  children  their  simple  pray- 
ers, and  listened  as  they  spoke  them  night  and 
morning.  She  it  was  who  placed  "the  old  Bible 
on  the  bureau,"  and  "let  the  youngsters  browse 
in  it  to  (their)  hearts'  content."  She  it  was  also 
who  "loved  to  go  over  the  sweet  stories,  with 
some  w^ord  out  of  her  own  heart."  "My  dear 
mother,"  says  the  Doctor,  "was  one  of  the  best 
story  tellers  I  have  ever  known,  and  I  still  sow 
daisies  and  violets  on  her  grave  and  kiss  the  sod 
for  this  among  the  many  gifts  she  had,  that  when 
we  sat  about  her  knees,  by  the  winter  fire,  she 
would  only  tell  us  stories  that  were  bright  and 
wholesome  and  the  mother-milk  of  laughter.  And 
if  a  neighbour  came  in  with  some  tale  of  a  ghost 
or  goblin,  that  would  be  likely  to  haunt  our  imag- 
inations, she  would  let  them  go  right  on ;  but  when 
they  were  through,  she  would  tell  another  story 
that  would  make  your  hair  stand  on  end  until  she 
came  to  the  end  of  it,  and  that  would  fill  the  whole 
place  with  laughter,  when  it  turned  out  to  be  a 


38        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

donkey  or  something  equally  absurd.  And  when 
they  had  gone  away,  she  would  bid  us  say  our 
prayers,  and  say  there  was  nothing  to  fear  if  we 
were  good  bairns;  but  she  would  not  send  us  to 
bed  alone,  she  would  go  along  with  us  and  tell  us 
some  more  bright  stories  to  hush  our  fears,  and 
then  she  would  leave  the  candle  until  we  fell 
asleep." 

Was  it  this  wise  mother,  or  was  it  Master  Har- 
dy, or  was  it  the  "old-fashioned  Sunday  school" 
which  stirred  in  the  growing  lad,  even  in  these 
early  years,  that  love  of  reading  which  remained 
to  his  dying  day  one  of  the  passions  of  his  life? 
Probably  something  of  one  and  something  of  an- 
other, together  with  a  generous  measure  of  na- 
tive instinct  which  determines  likes  and  dislikes, 
we  know  not  how  nor  why.  At  any  rate,  Robert 
Collyer  was  a  lover  of  books,  if  there  ever  was 
one.  The  delightful  story  of  the  "big  George 
the  Third  penny"  is  as  familiar  in  biographical 
annals  as  the  story  of  Theodore  Parker  and  the 
turtle,  but  it  must  be  told  again  if  only  that  this 
narrative  may  be  complete.  One  happy  day, 
Robert  held  in  his  hand  a  big  English  penny,  and 
"was  looking  through  the  window  of  our  one 
small  store  at  a  jar  full  of  candy  (he)  dearly 
loved."  Right  close  to  the  jar,  however,  was  a 
tiny  book,  with  the  fascinating  inscription,  "The 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  39 

History  of  Whittington  and  His  Cat,  William 
Walker,  Printer,  Price,  One  Penny."  "I  would 
fain  have  bought  the  candy,"  says  the  Doctor, 
"but  I  did  buy  the  book,  .  .  .  and  read  (it)  I 
guess  until  it  was  a  mere  rag.  .  .  .  This  was  the 
tiny  seed  of  a  library  which,  when  the  new  cen- 
tury had  dawned,  had  grown  to  more  than  three 
thousand  volumes,  while  the  time  would  fail  me 
to  tell  how  the  hunger  for  books  grew  by  what 
it  fed  on." 

In  the  beginning,  books  were  few.  The  home 
shelf  carried  only  Bunyan's  "Pilgrim's  Progress," 
Defoe's  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  Goldsmith's  "Eng- 
land," "the  old  family  Bible  with  lots  of  pictures, 
and  a  few  books  beside  I  didn't  care  for. "  This  was 
no  "five-foot  shelf,"  unfortunately,  but  it  served. 
"I  would  read  my  Bunyan  and  *Crusoe'  and 
Goldsmith,  and  the  stories  in  the  old  Bible,"  so 
writes  the  Doctor,  and  they  "were  as  wells  of  pure 
water.  It  must  have  been  by  such  reading  that 
I  got  a  lifelong  love  for  simple  Saxon  words,  and 
have  been  able  to  get  along  with  but  little  Latin 
and  less  Greek."  Occasionally  also,  a  borrowed 
book  came  into  the  home  through  the  father,  who 
observed  and  rightly  valued  his  son's  love  of  read- 
ing, and  memorable  were  the  days  when  in  this 
way  the  poems  of  Burns  and  the  plays  of  Shakes- 
peare  first  came  into  his  hands. 


40        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Such  was  the  raising  of  this  Yorkshire  "lad- 
die." Life  varied  little  from  day  to  day.  Now 
and  then,  to  be  sure,  there  came  unusual  days. 
One  such  was  the  festival  in  observance  of  the 
dedication-day  of  the  parish  church,  "when  all 
the  homes  in  the  parish  were  burnished  bright  in 
honour  of  the  day,  and,  so  far  as  our  means  would 
allow,  we  feasted  to  our  heart's  content,  very 
much  as  you  do  at  Thanksgiving,  while  the  kins- 
folk and  friends,  who  had  not  moved  too  far 
away,  would  come  to  our  feast,  and  when  their 
festival  came  'round  we  would  go  to  theirs. 

"Another  joyous  season  was  that  of  Christmas- 
tide.  More  than  once  the  approach  of  this  festal 
day  was  accompanied  by  anxious  forebodings, 
for  the  household  was  poor,  and  the  wherewithal 
for  the  celebration  was  scarcer  than  usual.  But 
the  pennies  were  somewhere,  somehow  found. 
Then  would  come  a  bit  of  malt  from  the  malster, 
a  piece  of  beef  for  the  roast,  and  a  cheese,  al- 
ways a  whole  one,  however  small.  The  good 
mother  would  bake  the  yule-cakes  and  the  loaf. 
Then  on  Christmas  morn,  before  the  light  of 
day,  would  come  the  singers  and  players  on  di- 
vers instruments  from  Thurscross,  with  their 
carols,  *While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by 
night'  and  *God  bless  the  master  of  this  house.' 
For  they  were  musical  up  there  close  to  the  moors, 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  41 

and  had  once  'performed'  in  an  oratorio.  This 
was  the  signal  for  the  turning  of  the  yule-log, 
the  lighting  of  the  candles,  the  tapping  of  the 
barrel,  and  the  setting  out  of  yule-loaf  and  cheese. 
Always  'largess'  was  given  to  the  singers,  often- 
times wet  and  cold  from  the  drifting  snow,  with 
good  wishes  and  proffered  blessings  all  around. 
Then  we  went  forth  in  our  turn,  .  .  .  lads  all, 
and  no  lassies,  for  no  one  of  that  sex  must  enter 
any  door  first  on  that  or  on  any  New  Year's 
morning.  And  we  would  pipe  up  some  little 
note,  through  our  red  noses  for  the  frost  was 
keen.  And  a  little  welcome  would  be  given  the 
children,  theirs  at  our  house,  ours  at  theirs — 
some  penny  for  the  gold  they  gave  in  the  old 
time,  and  a  bit  of  cake  no  frankincense  could 
match,  or  myrrh,  the  good  man  of  the  house  wait- 
ing for  us  with  his  bounty  and  with  a  bit  of  clear 
fire  to  warm  us.  And  no  king  of  the  East,  or 
West,  so  happy  as  we  were,  surely,  on  the  Christ- 
mas morn.  .  .  .  We  were  all  neighbours'  children, 
and  must  miss  no  house,  for  that  would  bring 
pain. — Then  they  would  come  in,  the  old  neigh- 
bours, at  eventide,  to  sit  by  the  open  fire  and  tell 
stories  of  Christmastides  far  away,  when  the 
great  snows  fell,  or  when  the  maid  heard  her 
lover  call  her  from  the  moor,  where  he  was  lost, 
and  how  she  raised  the  little  hamlet,  and  they 


42        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

went  forth  and  found  hini  not  dead ;  ^  how  the 
man  was  lost  and  could  not  be  found,  and  when 
spring  came  and  the  snow  melted,  he  was  stand- 
ing stark  in  a  drift  close  to  the  farm  gate  in  the 
ghyll ;  stories  of  great  storms  and  of  other  things 
that  shook  little  hearts,  but  nothing  could  harm 
you,  or  be  seen  even,  while  the  holy  tide  lasted; 
and  how  the  oxen  always  bowed  their  knees  on 
the  stroke  of  twelve  Christmas  eve,  and  who 
had  verily  seen  them;  and  what  peril  there  was 
taking  fire  from  one  house  to  another  during  the 
holy  time,  as  was  proven  by  many  instances  of 
disaster  or  death  within  the  year. — Then  the  poor 
creatures  came  along  we  all  knew — God's  poor. 
I  have  heard  brave  music  and  singing  in  all  these 
years,  but  I  think  I  never  heard  anything  so  won- 
derful. It  Vv^as  a  gift  of  God  to  his  poor,  and 
was  saved  for  Christmas.  It  was  seldom  they 
would  sing  at  other  times ;  but  then  it  seemed  as 
if  they  had  heard  the  angels.  They  knew  noth- 
ing of  music;  but  the  charm  was  on  them  and  in 
them,  and  they  sang.  Verj^  old  carols  they  only 
seemed  to  know ;  and  never,  as  I  hear  them  so  far 
away,  rising  above  some  lovely  minor  key;  none 
of  the  rollicking  and  radiant  things  they  brought 
from  Thurscross,   but    just — ^melody.     And   so 

'See  Dr.  Collyer's  famous  ballad,  "Under  the  Snow,"  in  "Clear 
Grit,"  page  317. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  43 

once  in  the  year,  if  never  again,  they  did  eat  and 
were  satisfied.  I  am  not  sure  the  folk  did  not 
like  old  Sally  and  old  Willy  the  best  of  all,  for 
I  can  still  see  tears  stream  down  furrowed  cheeks 
as  they  are  singing,  and  then  hear  low  strains 
of  laughter  that  sound  as  if  they  had  got  tangled 
up  with  sobs." 

These  were  notable  events — but  notable  only 
because  they  marked  variation  from  the  monot- 
ony of  constant  and  rather  bare  routine.  Life 
in  Blubberhouses  was  simple,  in  some  ways  hard 
and  poor.  Indeed  it  was  probably  harder  and 
poorer  than  is  at  all  indicated  by  Robert  Collyer. 
The  poet  in  the  man  inevitably  came  to  the  fore, 
as  years  passed  by,  and  glorified  the  simplicity 
of  these  early  days.  But  they  had  much  of  dignity 
and  even  beauty,  and  not  a  little  joy,  in  the  home 
of  Samuel  and  Harriett  Collyer  at  least.  At  any 
rate,  the  son  Robert,  in  after  years,  in  a  country 
thousands  of  miles  away,  looked  back  upon  it 
with  gratitude  and  deep  thanksgiving.  In  imagi- 
nation he  would  return  to  the  old  familiar  scenes 
— "drink  at  a  well  he  loved  where  the  beryl  brown 
water  came  from  a  spring  hidden  in  the  moors, 
wander  over  the  pastures  and  through  the  lanes 
where  he  found  the  birds'  nests  the  home  canon 
would  not  allow  him  to  molest,  or  make  the 
mother  bird  afraid."     And  then  he  would  con- 


44        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

jure  up  through  the  mists  of  the  years  the  figure 
of  his  own  boyhood,  and  softly  say,  "Dear  little 
fellow,  3^ou  had  a  hard  time  then,  but  it  was  a 
good  time  also,  wasn't  it?  Have  any  flowers  in 
the  world  beside  ever  seemed  so  sweet  to  you  as 
the  snow-drop,  the  primrose  and  the  cowslip  you 
knew  so  well  where  to  find  and  bring  home  to 
Mother,  or  have  any  singing  birds  ever  matched 
your  memorj^  of  the  skylark  and  the  throstle,  or 
were  there  ever  such  Christmastides  as  those  she 
made  for  us  when  her  children  and  the  world  were 
all  young  together?" 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  45 


CHAPTER  III 

DOING  HIS  BEST 
1881-1848 

*'.  .  .  Hard  at  work  for  all  I  was  worth."— R.  C. 
in  "Some  Memories,"  page  S7. 

For  eight  years  the  even  flow  of  this  austere  but 
happy  period  of  childhood  was  uninterrupted. 
Day  after  day,  young  Robert  raced  and  romped 
over  the  wide-stretching  moors;  listened  to  the 
birds,  to  the  ripple  of  the  Washburn,  or  the  far 
music  of  the  Haworth  church-bells;  ate  his  sim- 
ple fare  of  skim-milk,  oatcake,  potatoes  and 
salt,  with  a  sip  of  cambric  tea  and  perhaps  a 
touch  of  marmalade  on  the  Sunday ;  read  and  re- 
read the  few  precious  books  within  the  home; 
went  to  day  school  and  Sunday  school;  lent  a 
hand  in  the  work  of  the  busy  mother;  had  his 
sound  sleep  in  the  loft  overhead  through  the  si- 
lences of  the  long,  long  winter  nights.  Gladly 
would  his  parents  have  left  the  boy  to  the  full 
enjoyment  and  profit  of  this  healthy  way  of  life. 
The  memory  of  their  own  early  years  of  bondage 


46        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  the  spinning  frames  was  too  fresh  and  too 
vivid,  we  may  well  believe,  to  permit  them  to 
surrender  lightly  their  little  ones  to  the  fell  clutch 
of  the  factory.  It  was  the  desire  to  escape  the 
possibility  of  this  fate,  undoubtedly,  which  had 
persuaded  Samuel  and  Harriett,  at  the  time  of 
their  marriage,  to  emigrate  to  the  United  States. 
But  the  panic  of  1823-24  blasted  their  hopes  for 
the  time  being.  Then  the  babies  began  to  arrive 
one  after  another  in  the  home.  And  now,  says 
the  eldest,  "I  was  eight  years  old  .  .  .  and  must 
go  to  the  factory  and  help  to  earn  my  own  liv- 
ing." 

The  next  six  years  mark  the  one  wholly  sad 
and  painful  period  of  Kobert  Colly er's  life.  Dur- 
ing all  of  this  time  he  worked  in  the  linen  mills 
at  Blubberhouses,  under  those  dreadful  condi- 
tions of  child-labour  in  industry  which  constitute 
one  of  the  darkest  pages  in  the  history  of  modern 
England.  He  was  one  of  those  millions  of  help- 
less little  "doiFers,"  as  they  were  called,  who 
changed  the  life  of  Robert  Owen,  stirred  the  re- 
forming zeal  of  Lord  Shaftsbur^^  prompted  the 
heroic  cry  of  Mrs.  Browning,  and  finally  inscribed 
upon  the  statute-books  of  the  kingdom  the  so- 
called  Factory  Acts.  Dr.  Collyer's  description 
of  what  he  endured  in  these  years  is  pitiful  in 
the  extreme,  especially  when  it  is  remembered 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  47 

that  this  is  a  picture  of  the  fate  not  of  a  single 
child,  but  of  the  multitudes  of  children  who 
swarmed  in  the  factory  towns  and  cities  of  the 
British  Isles. 

The  working  hours  at  Blubberhouses  were 
thirteen  a  day,  five  days  in  the  week,  and  eleven 
hours  on  Saturday;  the  wages  were  two  shillings 
per  week!  At  half-past  five  in  the  morning,  the 
factory-bell  sent  its  hideous  call  clanging  through 
the  valley,  and  at  six  o'clock  the  children  were 
busily  tending  the  whirring  spindles.  Here  they 
stood  till  noon-time,  with  never  a  moment  for 
rest  or  recreation.  They  were  not  even  allowed 
to  sit  down  at  their  work,  and  if  they  were  caught 
by  the  overseer  easing  their  weary  limbs  for  a 
moment  on  some  stray  box  or  barrel,  they  were 
brought  instantly  to  their  feet  by  the  stinging 
lash  of  a  heavy  leathern  strap  across  their  shoul- 
ders. Like  prisoners  in  a  pen,  these  poor  toilers 
at  the  machines  invented  a  code  of  signals,  by 
which  they  warned  one  another  of  the  approach 
of  the  foreman.  But  such  devices,  easily  discov- 
ered or  circumvented,  availed  them  little,  as  did 
the  scant  hour  at  noon  for  luncheon.  Each  day 
brought  its  burden  of  exhaustion  to  even  the 
strongest  among  the  children,  so  that  when  the 
work  stopped  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  or 
on  Saturday  at  six,  they  were  tired  "beyond  all 


48        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

telling."  The  crippling  of  the  children  in  their 
arms  and  backs,  and  especially  in  their  legs,  from 
much  standing,  was  inevitable.  The  memory  of 
the  crooked  limbs  of  his  work-mates  remained 
with  Dr.  Collyer  to  the  end  of  his  days,  and  cast 
a  sinister  light,  as  he  used  to  put  it,  on  the  Scrip- 
ture phrase,  *'The  Lord  regardeth  not  the  legs 
of  a  man."  Death  also  reaped  a  rich  harvest. 
When  examining  the  parish  register,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  my  visit  to  the  Fewston  church  in  the 
summer  of  1913,  I  was  struck  by  the  large  num- 
ber of  "deaths"  recorded  at  ages  from  nine  or 
ten  to  eighteen  or  twenty  years.  It  seemed  as 
though,  in  these  early  days  in  the  dale,  a  wholly 
disproportionate  number  of  persons  died  in  their 
youth.  The  vicar,  who  was  showing  me  his 
church  and  neighbourhood,  suggested  tuberculo- 
sis ;  I  suggested  child-labour ;  and  we  finally  com- 
promised on  a  combination  of  the  two,  with  the 
latter  ill  an  aggravating  if  not  determining  cause 
of  the  former. 

As  to  how  Dr.  Collyer  stood  the  trial  of  these 
days,  he  has  left  us  in  no  doubt.  His  legs  be- 
came bowed  and  twisted,  like  those  of  his  com- 
rades; and  it  was  his  belief  that  only  his  later 
work  as  a  blacksmith,  which  required  a  firm  grip 
of  a  horse's  hoof  between  his  knees,  ever  straight- 
ened them  out  again.    Sometimes,  by  the  miracle 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  49 

of  childhood,  he  would  leave  the  factory  not  tired 
at  all — and  then  there  was  a  gay  romp  home  to 
some  treasured  book  if  it  was  winter,  or  to  some 
favourite  nook  on  the  moor  or  by  the  river  if  it 
was  summer.  JMore  often,  however,  he  was  so 
tired  as  scarcely  to  be  able  to  drag  one  aching 
limb  after  the  other — and  he  was  not  a  frail  boy 
either,  but  big  and  strong  for  his  years!  On 
these  days  it  would  seem  as  though  the  hour  of 
release  would  never  come;  and  when  at  last  the 
spindles  ceased  their  turning  and  the  doors  flew 
open  to  the  clear  night  air,  nothing  was  wanted 
but  "home  and  to  bed."  The  darkness  of  this 
period  of  his  life  was  never  lifted  from  Dr.  CoU- 
yer's  heart,  buoyant  and  cheery  as  it  was.  The 
harsh  clangour  of  the  factory  bell,  for  instance, 
rang  in  his  ears  for  years  as  the  most  dreadful 
sound  in  all  the  world,  and  was  not  wholly  si- 
lenced until  the  iron-tongued  monster  had  been 
torn  from  its  place,  transported  to  America,  and 
relieved  of  its  curse  by  re-baptism  into  the 
grateful  service  of  Cornell  University.^     When, 

*  The  later  story  of  this  bell  is  one  of  the  romances  of  Dr.  Coll- 
yer's  life,  and  is  told  in  the  following  statement  by  President 
Adams,  of  Cornell,  published  on  January  31,  1889. 

"When  the  Rev.  Robert  Collyer  was  here  last  Spring  he  said  to 
me  incidentally,  as  we  were  walking  about  the  university  grounds, 
*I  wish  to  make  you  a  present.'  I  replied  that  we  were  always 
ready  to  receive  presents  worth  having,  and  I  was  sure  that  he 


50        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

on  a  certain  day  in  his  old  age,  I  chanced  to  ask 
him  if  he  would  like  to  live  his  life  all  over  again, 

would  not  offer  us  any  other.    He  then  proceeded  to  relate  to  me 
the  following  story: 

"  'Some  years  ago  the  village  in  which  I  used  to  work  as  a 
blacksmith  was  swept  away  in  order  that  the  site  might  be  used 
as  a  reservoir  for  the  city  of  Leeds.  In  this  general  destruction 
the  shop  in  which  I  worked  as  a  boy  perished.  Against  the  old 
bell  that  used  to  wake  me  up  very  early  in  the  morning  I  had  a 
special  grudge.  At  the  same  time  I  had  so  much  interest  in  it  that 
I  asked  a  friend  in  the  Town  Council  at  Leeds  to  see  that  when 
the  bell  was  broken  up  for  old  metal  a  piece  of  it  should  be  sent 
to  me  as  a  paper  weight.  The  result  was  that  the  Town  Council 
voted  to  send  me  the  whole  bell.  I  have  ever  since  been  waiting 
for  some  appropriate  place  where  it  could  be  put,  and  if  you  can 
make  any  use  of  it  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  it  to  you.' 

"I  replied  that  of  course  we  should  cheerfully  accept  it,  and 
would  find  an  appropriate  place  for  it.  I  asked  him  about  its 
size  and  tone,  but  he  would  only  say  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
that,  except  that  when  he  was  a  boy  it  made  altogether  too  much 
noise.  I  promised  to  see  that  the  bell  was  put  in  some  appropriate 
place.  When  I  wrote  to  Dr.  Collyer  about  coming  to  the  Sage 
Chapel  pulpit  this  spring,  in  reply  he  said:  'I  have  not  forgotten 
that  bell,  though  as  yet  it  has  not  been  quite  convenient  to  send 
it.'  Recently,  however,  I  received  from  him  the  following  very 
interesting  and  characteristic  letter: 

"  'New  York,  Jan.  21,  1889. 
"'Dear  President  Adams: 

"  'That  old  bell  will  be  sent  up  the  road  on  Saturday,  by  my 
brother,  in  whose  shop  it  lies. 

"  'It  was  the  factory  bell  which  rang  me  out  of  bed  between  1831 
and  1838  and  set  me  to  work  at  6  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  then 
rang  me  out  again  at  8  p.m.,  allowing  us  an  hour  at  noon  to 
breathe  and  get  our  dinner  and  that  was  all.  ...  I  hated  that 
bell  then  a  great  deal  worse  than — well,  you  know  the  comparison. 

"  'This  was  in  Fewston,  in  the  Forest  of  Knaresborough  in  York- 
shire.   Fewston  catches  the  eye  in  history  as  the  home  of  Edward 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  51 

and  he  gave  me  his  prompt  and  joyous  answer 
that  he  would,  his  face  suddenly  grew  stern  and 
hard  for  a  passing  moment,  and  he  burst  out, 
"but  not  the  years  in  the  mill.     I  wouldn't  live 

Fairfax,  who  made  the  best  translation  of  Tasso  we  have,  and 
dedicated  it  in  1600  to  Queen  Bess.  He  also  wrote  a  curious 
account  of  the  cantrips  of  certain  witches  touching  his  daughter 
Helen  and  some  others  in  Fewston,  which  was  edited  by  Lord 
Houghton  for  the  Philobiblion  series,  and  has  since  been  printed 
in  a  cheaper  edition  and  better,  by  an  old  friend  of  mine,  of  which 
I  must  have  sent  a  copy  to  the  library  at  Cornell. 

"  'Well,  the  old  factory  broke  down  long  after  I  left,  and  served 
it  right!  Was  purchased  by  the  town  of  Leeds,  18  miles  away, 
for  the  sake  of  the  river,  which  is  a  fine  soft  stream  tumbling 
down  from  the  moors  to  supply  the  town  withal.  Then  the  factory 
was  pulled  down;  vast  reservoirs  made  to  store  the  water  of 
Washburn  they  drink  in  Leeds  with  great  content,  though  the 
majority,  I  think,  prefer  beer.  And  when  I  heard  of  all  this  I 
wrote  to  a  friend  in  the  Town  Council,  saying,  "When  they  break 
up  that  wicked  old  bell  (you  know  there  is  a  total  depravity 
sometimes  in  inanimate  things)  secure  me  a  piece  and  send  it 
over,"  being  moved  as  Quilp  was  when  he  would  batter  that  old 
figurehead. 

"  'Well,  the  first  I  knew  after  that  about  the  thing  was  its  ap- 
pearing at  my  door  here  as  you  see  it,  all  charges  paid,  the  gift  I 
presume  of  the  corporation  and  council.  Then  I  began  to  relent, 
and  said:  "I  will  put  you  to  some  finer  use,  old  fellow  (it's  a  he), 
than  to  ring  up  children  at  unearthly  hours  to  go  to  work  in  a  fac- 
tory," and  I  finally  struck  the  right  idea.  I  do  not  know  its  tone 
now;  I  only  know  it  used  to  be  the  most  infernal  clang  in  all  the 
world  to  me,  and  I  have  no  choice  as  to  its  special  use.  It  will 
be  pleasant  to  think  of  it  as  born  again,  converted  and  regenerate, 
now  while  the  ages  of  Cornell  endure,  calling  people  to  nobler 
occupations,  and  so  much  more  welcome — a  sweet  bell,  I  hope, 
not  jangled  out  of  tune  and  harsh.     Indeed  yours, 

"Robert  Collyer.'  " 


52        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

those  over  again,  not  for  all  the  blessings  that 
might  be  given  me  in  compensation." 

For  a  brief  interval  during  this  period,  the 
child's  burden  was  lightened  a  bit,  not  by  the 
charity  of  the  mill-owners,  but,  as  is  usually  the 
case  in  such  matters  unfortunately,  by  grace  and 
authority  of  the  law  of  the  land.  In  1833  was 
passed  one  of  that  long  series  of  Factory  Acts 
which  constitute  one  of  the  most  important  chap- 
ters in  the  history  of  modem  English  legislation, 
and  which  laid  the  foundation  in  law  and  custom 
of  that  great  structure  of  social  reform  which 
is  so  conspicuous  and  beneficent  a  feature  of  our 
time.  This  particular  Act,  which  had  been  pre- 
ceded by  other  acts  in  1802,.  1819,  1825,  and  an 
amending  act  in  1831,  provided  that  night  work 
(between  8:30  p.m.  and  5:30  a.m.)  for  per- 
sons under  eighteen  in  cotton,  wool,  worsted, 
hemp,  flax,  tow  and  linen  spinneries  and  weav- 
ing mills,  should  be  prohibited ;  that  children  from 
nine  to  thirteen  should  work  not  more  than  48 
hours  a  week ;  and  that  young  persons  from  thir- 
teen to  eighteen  should  be  restricted  to  68  hours 
a  week.  Provision  was  also  made  for  school  at- 
tendance, and  for  the  appointment  of  factory  in- 
spectors to  watch  over  the  working  of  the  law. 

Judged  by  our  modern  standards  of  child-la- 
bour legislation,  this  Act  seems  moderate  enough, 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  58 

indeed  hardly  decent.  To  the  tiny  toilers  of 
that  period,  however,  it  was  a  veritable  boon,  as 
witness  the  ease  of  Robert  Collyer.  Ten  years 
old  at  the  time  of  its  enactment,  his  hours  in  the 
factory  were  immediately  reduced  from  76  to 
48  a  week;  and  when  three  years  later  he  passed 
his  thirteenth  year,  were  raised  to  not  more  than 
68.  This  was  a  priceless  gain  of  freedom.  The 
little  back  was  not  now  so  bent,  or  the  twisted 
limbs  so  tired,  at  the  end  of  the  day.  There  were 
welcome  hours  of  sleep  in  the  early  morning,  and 
equally  welcome  hours  for  play  or  reading  out 
on  the  moors  before  the  darkness  fell.  And  how 
must  it  have  cheered  the  mother's  heart  to  see  the 
yoke  lifted  ever  so  little  from  her  dear  one's 
shoulders!  In  the  cottage  at  Westhouse,  as  in 
thousands  of  similar  dwellings  throughout  the 
land,  this  Factory  Act  was  as  a  very  gift  of 
heaven. 

It  was  not  until  1837,  however,  that  any  real 
change  in  the  boy's  life  was  effected.  Then  came 
the  transfer  of  labour  from  the  spinning- frame  to 
the  anvil,  and  of  residence  from  the  remote  vil- 
lage of  Blubberhouses  to  the  thriving  provincial 
town  of  Ilkley. 

"There  was  (an)  article  in  our  home  creed," 
writes  the  Doctor,  "about  which  both  my  father 
and  mother  were  always  of  one  mind — the  boys 


54        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

must  learn  a  trade.  It  would  cost  money,  and  if 
we  stayed  in  the  factory  we  could  earn  instead  of 
spending,  but  this  made  no  matter,  we  should  lose 
our  rank  in  life.  ]My  brave  and  steadfast  father 
was  a  mechanic,  it  was  a  step  above  the  factory, 
so  we  boys  must  be  mechanics  too,  and  then 
though  we  might  never  rise  in  the  world,  when 
they  were  through,  we  should  not  fall.  Well, 
there  was  an  old  blacksmith  six  (sic)  miles  away 
over  the  moors,  who  had  taught  my  father,  and  he 
was  willing  to  teach  me;  I  was  rising  fourteen 
then,  and  it  was  time  to  begin.  .  .  .  And  (this) 
was  how  I  came  to  the  anvil,  the  utmost  limit  in 
those  days  of  my  ambition." 

The  master  smith  to  whom  he  was  apprenticed 
was  indeed  none  other  than  John  Birch,  "ow'd 
Jacky  Birch"  as  he  was  called,  who  had  taught 
Robert  Collyer's  father  his  trade  years  before  at 
the  old  factory  forge.  He  was  now  the  owner 
of  a  prosperous  smithy  in  Ilkley,  had  always 
some  two  or  three  lads  taking  instruction  at  his 
anvil,  and  was  glad  enough,  we  may  be  sure,  to 
receive  into  his  keeping  and  guidance  the  son  of 
his  former  pupil  at  Blubberhouses.  Young  Coll- 
yer  was  bound  to  him  for  a  period  of  seven  years, 
or  until  he  was  twenty-one,  giving  his  labour,  and 
receiving  in  return  house  room  and  food,  week- 
day shirts  and  leathern  aprons,  and  the  teaching 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  55 

of  an  ancient  master  at  his  trade.  It  was  a  fair 
bargain,  and  to  his  parents,  as  to  the  boy  himself, 
it  must  have  seemed  a  settling  of  the  problem  of 
life-work  as  happy  as  it  was  final. 

On  a  certain  morning,  therefore,  of  August, 
1837,  a  sturdy  lad  of  fourteen  years  of  age  might 
have  been  seen  taking  leave  of  the  Collyer  home 
in  Washburndale,  and  starting  on  his  walk  across 
Denton  Moor  to  Ilkley  town.  Down  the  village 
street,  with  many  a  smile  and  benediction  from 
the  housewives  in  the  cottage  row — over  the  river 
which  had  sung  songs  to  his  listening  ears  ever 
since  he  was  a  babe  in  arms — up  the  long  slope 
of  the  hill  to  the  great  moors  heaving  to  the  sky — 
this  would  be  the  way  he  would  go ;  and  when  he 
reached  the  summit,  we  may  well  believe  that  he 
would  pause  for  a  moment  to  say  good-bye  to  his 
little  world.  He  tells  us  in  his  "Some  Memories" 
that  he  was  "homesick  for  a  time"  after  leaving 
Westhouse,  and  it  is  pretty  certain  that  the  ail- 
ment would  begin  right  here  on  the  edge  of  the 
moors.  It  was  not  the  factory  that  he  regretted, 
as  he  looked  down  that  brilliant  summer  day 
upon  the  black  cloud  of  smoke  hanging  low  over 
the  scattered  hamlet;  he  could  only  feel  abound- 
ing joy  that  his  days  of  slavery  to  the  spinning- 
frames  were  over.  No,  it  was  the  thought  of  the 
home-nest    that    choked    the    little    lad.      The 


56        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

familiar  white-washed  walls,  the  friendly  nook  in 
the  loft  overhead,  the  rose-bush  in  the  yard,  the 
thrush  that  perched  and  sang  in  the  old  plum-tree 
by  the  door,  the  long  hours  of  reading  in  the  sum- 
mer fields,  the  stories  by  the  winter  fireside,  the 
Christmas  cheer,  the  quiet  father  whose  compan- 
ionship he  was  just  beginning  to  know,  above 
all  the  full-breasted,  big-hearted  mother  whose 
love  was  to  him  as  the  shelter  of  God's  hand — 
these  were  the  visions  that  held  his  gaze  as  he 
looked  down  through  the  clouds  of  smoke  upon 
the  stone  cottage  with  its  rough  thatched  roof. 
They  were  happy  pictures,  every  one,  and  fading 
now  forever  from  his  sight. 

But  he  must  not  linger.  As  brave  in  heart  as 
he  was  stalwart  in  body,  the  lad  w^ould  turn  away 
and  set  his  face  steadfastly  toward  his  new  home. 
In  this  same  month  of  August,  just  seventy-six 
years  later,  it  was  my  happy  lot  to  travel  on  this 
same  ancient  road  which  had  felt  the  trudging 
of  young  Robert's  feet.  I  also  climbed  the  slopes, 
took  my  last  look  at  the  lovely  vale  of  Washburn- 
dale,  and  then  turned  westwards  to  the  moors. 
Overhead  a  cloudless  expanse  of  sky,  blazing 
with  the  glory  of  midsummer!  On  every  side,  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  waves  of  purple 
heather  rolling  like  ocean  billows  to  the  horizon  I 
Not  a  house,  not  a  tree,  not  a  living  thing,  save 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  57 

here  and  there  a  rustling  grouse  fleeing  the  ap- 
proach of  man  I  It  was  beautiful  beyond  all  ex- 
pression— and  yet  lonely  as  the  loneliness  of  the 
sea.  We  went  on  mile  after  mile,  as  though  we 
were  the  only  persons  living  on  the  planet.  And 
then  there  came  the  crest  of  another  long  slope — 
this  time  downward  into  Wharfedale.  Here  at 
our  feet  were  rich  meadows,  pleasant  pastures,  a 
cheerful  sparkling  river,  luxuriant  foliage  in 
wooded  dells,  a  range  of  hills  with  huge  masses 
of  craggy  rocks,  the  long  highway  winding 
through  the  fields  dotted  with  old  stone  cottages, 
and  breaking  into  charming  little  lanes  and  by- 
paths, and,  in  the  midst,  the  crowded  buildings 
and  streets  of  Ilkley,  and  the  black  streak  of  the 
railroad  running  off  to  Leeds.  On  such  a  day, 
through  such  a  scene,  and  to  such  a  goal,  jour- 
neyed the  Yorkshire  apprentice  lad.  To  him,  as 
to  me,  the  rolling  moors  must  have  seemed  at 
once  beautiful  and  lonely.  In  spite  of  the  heather 
and  the  grouse,  homesickness  must  still  have  lin- 
gered with  him.  But  when  he  came  at  last  to  the 
slopes  of  Wharfedale,  and  looked  down  upon 
Ilkley  parish,  his  heart  must  have  leaped  at  the 
sheer  loveliness  of  this  new  world.  Here  was  his 
home — here  was  his  life-work — here  was  the 
world  that  he  was  to  make  his  own!  Regrets 
would  now  yield  to  anticipations,  the  homesick- 


58        THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

ness  of  the  boy  to  the  ambition  of  the  man.  With 
light  step  and  shining  eves,  he  would  stride  down 
the  winding  road,  and  welcome  with  eager  breast 
the  advent  of  his  new  day. 

The  change  from  the  old  to  the  new  was  great. 
Tlkley  was  a  thriving  provincial  centre,  mainly 
composed  of  busy  tradesmen  in  the  town  proper, 
and  busT  farmers  and  daimnen  in  the  surround- 
ing  dale-country.  As  contrasted  with  Blubber- 
houses,  it  had  no  factories,  with  their  tall  chim- 
neys, whirring  wheels  and  clouds  of  smoke,  and 
no  factory  workers,  with  their  poverty  and  dis- 
ease. In  1831,  it  had  a  population  of  691  per- 
sons; in  1834,  a  population  of  940;  and  in  1861, 
a  population  of  1407.  Its  chief  distinctions,  and 
largest  soiu"ce  of  business  activity,  were  a  re- 
markable spring,  ''arising  from  the  side  of  a 
mountain  near  to  the  town,"  and  a  location  in 
Wharfedale  unrivaUed  for  scenic  beauty.  In 
early  days,  the  spring  was  reputed  to  have  cura- 
tive properties,  especially  in  cases  of  scrofula  and 
kindred  diseases.  Later  and  perhaps  more  hon- 
est chroniclers  express  doubts  as  to  "whether 
there  (were)  any  virtues  in  the  water,  more  than 
its  purity,  and  the  tenuity  of  its  component  parts 
for  internal  use."  However  this  may  have  been, 
Hkley  was  then,  as  it  is  now,  a  weU-known  and 
much-frequented  summer  resort.    "The  worth  of 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  59 

the  waters/'  writes  the  Doctor  in  his  "Ilkley: 
Ancient  and  ^Modern/'  "the  lovely  landscape,  the 
free-blowing  winds  on  the  moors,  the  sunshine 
rippling  like  a  vast  translucent  sea,  as  you  stand 
knee-deep  in  the  sweet  blossoming  heather,  the 
breath  of  kine,  the  homely  fare,  and  the  quietness 
which  lay  on  all  things  like  Bunyans  dream  of 
Beulah,  touched  the  heart  and  imagination  of  the 
forlorn,  far  and  wide,  and  drew  them  to  the 
pretty  rural  hollow,  that  had  been  waiting  to  help 
and  bless  them  time  out  of  mind."'  In  a  small 
guide-book  to  Ilkley,  pubHshed  in  1829,  there 
are  named  no  less  than  six  boarding-houses, 
twenty-nine  lodging-houses,  and  three  inns,  the 
Rose  and  Crown,  the  Wheat  Sheaf,  and  Lister's 
Arms.  On  the  Hst  of  boarding-houses,  it  is  inter- 
esting to  note  that  of  "John  Birch,  blacksmith, 
Eastgate."  The  shop-keepers  included  six  gro- 
cers, five  shoe-makers,  three  confectioners,  two 
butchers,  two  drapers,  two  blacksmiths,  two  car- 
riers, two  wheelwrights  and  carpenters,  one  tailor, 
one  miller,  and  one  "Richard  Brown,  top  of 
Krrkgate,  joiner,  portrait,  animal  and  landscape 
painter."  It  was  not  a  city  to  which  young  Rob- 
ert had  come :  but  it  was  a  thriving  village,  with  a 
variety  of  people  and  interests  unknown  in  Blub- 
berhouses. 

If  the  change  ia  Robert's  physical  environ- 


60        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

ment  was  great,  so  also  were  the  changes  in 
the  more  intimate  associations  of  his  personal 
life.  Some  of  these  were  unfortunate,  as,  for 
example,  the  sudden  withdrawal  of  home  safe- 
guards and  sanctities.  "In  my  father's  time," 
writes  the  Doctor,  "  (Birch)  was  a  fine  sober  fel- 
low and  a  superb  workman,  but  the  years  had 
made  havoc  of  him,  and  boy  as  I  was,  I  found 
very  soon  I  had  gone  to  live  in  the  home  of  a 
drunkard.  Still  this  was  not  so  bad  to  me,  as  it 
would  be  to  you.  The  proverb  says  a  fox  smells 
nothing  amiss  in  his  own  den,  and  while  our  home 
was  what  I  have  told  you  of,  we  thought  of  beer 
very  much  as  we  thought  of  bread,  while  I  was 
about  as  familiar  with  beer  as  I  was  with  bread 
and  beef,  and  thought  no  more  of  its  hurting  me, 
than  you  think  of  hot  soda  biscuits  and  solid 
chunks  of  mince  pie,  and  pickles  and  doughnuts 
hurting  you.  Then  I  found  again  that  the  men 
were  drinking  a  great  deal  more  in  my  new  place 
than  we  had  ever  thought  of  drinking  in  the  old. 
Each  had  about  a  quart  a  day,  and  then  the 
farmers  who  came  to  the  forge  were  forever  send- 
ing for  beer,  and  so  the  thing  went  on  from  bad 
to  worse,  until  one  day  .  .  .  the  old  man  went  on 
a  fearful  drunk,  and  said  'ise  verra  badly,  lad,' 
next  day,  and  'ise  boon  to  dee,'  and  sure  enough, 
that  was  the  last  of  the  drinking  bouts." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  61 

Here  were  depressing  conditions — and  dan- 
gerous, too,  had  it  not  been  for  the  "good  home 
training  which  had  long  since  led  him  into  clean 
and  honourable  ways,"  the  power  and  purity  of 
the  boy's  native  manhood,  as  well  as  the  pres- 
ence of  certain  other  more  favourable  circum- 
stances. Thus  the  change  from  the  spinning- 
frame  to  the  anvil  was  all  to  the  good.  The  hours, 
for  one  thing,  were  not  so  long,  being  limited  to 
ten,  except  in  very  busy  times.  Then  the  work 
itself,  for  another  thing,  was  conducive  to  health 
and  vigour.  Much  of  it  was  in  the  open  air — all 
of  it  involved  quick  motion,  vigorous  exercise,  and 
constant  interest.  No  wonder  that  the  twisted 
legs  and  the  bent  back  became  straight,  the  chest 
full,  and  the  arms  "like  iron  bands"!  Further- 
more, Master  Birch  kept  a  good  table,  in  spite 
of  the  beer.  The  food  was  simple  and  rough,  but 
it  was  wholesome,  plentiful  and  had  some  va- 
riety. "We  got  plenty  of  porridge  and  haver- 
cake,"  writes  the  Doctor  in  after  days,  "and  he 
kept  a  good  fat  pig.  Jack  Toffin,  one  of  the 
journeymen,  used  to  say,  however,  that  Mrs. 
Birch  could  make  two  giblet  pies  out  of  a  *goois 
neck.'  "  It  was  at  this  time,  undoubtedly,  that 
Robert  Collyer  put  on  that  abounding  health,  and 
developed  that  superb,  almost  giant-like  stature, 
which  remained  so  supremely  the  characteristics 


62        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

of  his  later  physical  manhood.  In  his  autobiog- 
raphy, he  relates  how  in  these  days  a  certain  old 
man,  coming  into  the  forge  to  warm  his  hands, 
would  turn  to  him  and  say,  "How  thou  dost  grow 
to  be  sewer:  if  thaa  doesn't  stop  soin,  we  sail 
hev  to  put  a  stithy  on  thee  heead."  And  along 
with  growth,  came  the  unbridled,  exultant  buoy- 
ancy of  youth.  "I  was  not  a  model  boy,"  writes 
the  Doctor.  Indeed,  it  is  remembered  by  a  con- 
temporary in  Ilkley  that,  standing  with  his  aunt 
one  day  as  young  Collyer  went  striding  by,  he 
heard  the  good  lady  exclaim,  "There  goes  that 
Collyer  lad;  he's  a  taastril."  ^  Another  tale  has 
to  tell  of  a  certain  night,  when  the  "doings"  con- 

^  This  may  have  been  said  of  him  at  a  somewhat  earlier  period. 
In  a  letter  written  in  1889  to  a  little  girl  who  had  seen  this  word 
"taastril"  in  an  informal  account  of  Dr,  Collyer's  life,  and  wanted 
to  know  what  it  meant,  he  explained  as  follows: 
"Dear  Little  Sister: 

"Taastril,  when  you  mean  a  boy,  as  old  Lady  Holmes  did,  is  a 
little  chap  as  full  of  mischief  as  he  can  hold,  and  the  word  which 
belongs  to  Yorkshire,  as  you  say,  takes  on  worse  meanings  when 
you  grow  up  and  grow  worse.  I  was  a  little  chap  then  when  she 
said  it,  and  didn't  know  she  said  it  at  all.  But  three  years  ago, 
when  I  was  in  England  and  had  to  speak  in  the  Unitarian  church 
in  Halifax,  an  old  gentleman  came  to  see  me,  just  about  my  own 
age.  He  was  a  little  fellow,  too,  and  was  staying  with  the  old 
lady,  who  was  his  aunt.  He  heard  her  say  what  I  told,  because 
I  had  run  after  her  ducks  and  scared  them  dreadfully  just  before; 
and  then,  I  should  think  it  was  fifty-five  years  after,  this  old 
gentleman  turned  up  and  told  me  what  she  said. 

"So,  if  you  were  a  boy,  I  should  tell  you  not  to  get  into  mischief 


"The  Iron  Gates,"  see  page  7Jf 
From  a  Snapshot  taken  by  the  author  in  1913 


The   Ilkley   'Smithv" 
From  an  old  Photograph 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  63 

tinned  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  A  mill- 
er's young  wife,  who  had  been  waiting  her  truant 
husband  something  after  the  manner  of  Tarn  o' 
Shanter's  dame,  greeted  him  as  follows :  "Why, 
David,  man,  thaa  be  out  too  late."  "Noa,  noa, 
woman,"  he  replied,  "Bob  Collyer's  yet  behind 
me."  "What! — Boab,"  she  exclaimed,  "then 
thaa  be  home  full  airly!" 

If  there  are  no  sins  or  follies  to  record  in  these 
years,  it  is  not  because  of  any  lack  of  vitality,  but 
rather  because  of  healthy  activities  which  ab- 
sorbed this  vitality  and  assimilated  it  to  good  uses. 
The  ordinary  routine  of  the  young  man's  life  in 
this  period  is  not  hard  to  trace.  Six  days  in  the 
week,  he  was  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  hard 
at  work  until  eventide  "by  the  anvil,  considering 
the  unwrought  iron."  Horse-shoes,  nails,  bolts 
and  bars,  iron  gates,  the  usual  products  of  the 
smithy,  made  up  the  work  of  his  hands.  In  the 
afternoon,  not  too  late,  the  hammer  was  laid  on 
the  anvil,  the  forge  fire  banked  for  the  night,  and 
the  young  apprentice  left  to  his  own  devices.  If 
it  were  the  winter-time,  he  was  at  his  books  in  a 

if  you  could  help  it,  because  you  never  know  when  you  are  safe. 
It  may  be  fifty-five  years,  and  then  the  old  gentleman  may  come 
along  and  open  the  book,  and  there  you  are  on  the  old  yellow 
page,  with  the  date  in  it  of  1829  or  '30,  set  down  as  a  taastril. 

"Indeed, 

"Robert  Collyer." 


64        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

trice,  and  all  the  long  evening  through  was  read- 
ing. If  it  were  summer,  and  the  lingering  sun 
gave  promise  of  bright  hours  on  the  moor,  he 
was  off  to  the  uplands,  to  read  in  some  fragrant 
nook  or  mayhap  to  gaze  on  the  beauties  of  the 
dale,  and  dream.  On  the  Sundays  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  spend  the  morning  at  the  parish 
church ;  ^  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  weather 

'  His  recollections  of  the  preachers  were  delightfully  told  in 
after  years,  in  a  letter  to  the  Observer,  under  date  of  December 
18,  1884: 

"The  first  of  these  that  I  remember  was  a  right  racy  divine, 
handsome  as  May,  and  a  very  useful  man  indeed  in  many  ways, 
but  the  people  who  loved  him  had  to  apologise  for  him,  and  say 
'it's  parson's  way,'  and  that  is  not  a  fortunate  position  for  the 
parson.  Still  they  would  do  anything  for  him  except  lend  him 
'brass,'  and  seemed  just  as  well  pleased  as  if  he  had  gone  through 
the  whole  service  on  a  piping  hot  Sunday  afternoon,  when  he  said 
with  great  simplicity,  after  saying  the  prayers,  'I  have  no  sermon 
to-day,  and  so  will  dismiss  you  with  the  benediction.  Now  to, 
etc.,'  and  the  madcaps  under  age  rather  looked  for  some  such 
rare  fortune  again  but  did  not  get  it.  He  had  also  a  curious 
trick  of  crying  when  he  preached,  for  no  reason  that  we  could 
make  out  from  the  discourse,  and  no  doubt  a  remark  made  by  old 
Jacky  Birch,  as  he  wended  home  one  Sunday,  was  often  made, 
'Aa  wonder  what  t'parson  wer  roarin'  at  ta  day.' 

"The  next  that  I  remember  was  a  mere  drill-sergeant  and  was 
bound  to  make  us  all  learn  the  step  and  march  to  church  but — we 
didn't. 

"The  next  had  nothing  to  say  and  said  it  in  the  highest  key  he 
could  reach,  without  the  slightest  modulation  or  emphasis.  I  think 
we  should  not  have  minded  if  he  made  the  thing  musical,  but  it 
was  good  news  when  we  heard  he  was  to  leave  us  and  when  old 
Joe  Smith,  the  parish  clerk,  gave  notice  that  on  the  next  Sunday 
Mr.  B.  would  preach  his  funeral  sermon.    Poor  old  Joe  was  turned 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  65 

was  fair,  sometimes  with  companions,  more  often 
alone,  always  with  a  book,  he  climbed  the  long 
slopes  to  the  moors.  These  great  stretches  of 
heather-strewn  prairie  were  his  unfailing  delight, 
a  veritable  refuge  of  the  spirit.  Whenever  op- 
portunity offered,  wrote  the  Doctor  in  after  days, 
"I  would  walk  over  the  moors,  with  my  book,  or 

eighty  and  would  now  and  then  give  out  the  evening  hymn  in  the 
morning. 

"The  next  who  stays  in  my  memory  was  very  'high'  and  very  dry, 
sincere  as  the  day,  and  full  of  devotion  to  his  work.  But  he  was 
fresh  from  Oxford,  full  of  the  new  wine  which  was  fermenting 
there  then,  and  did  not  know  the  people  he  had  to  deal  with  from 
a  cord  of  wood.  So  instead  of  being  all  things  to  us  as  Paul 
directs  by  inference,  he  wanted  us  to  be  all  things  to  him,  and 
especially  to  attend  no  end  of  services  on  week  days  and  to  fast 
in  Lent.  Now  Ilkley  never  did  believe  in  fasting  when  she  could 
get  anything  to  eat,  while  very  much  of  her  living  lay  in  providing 
in  those  times  for  'company,'  so  while  the  good  man  wore  himself 
to  skin  and  bone  in  the  weeks  before  Easter,  we  quietly  voted 
the  whole  thing  a  nuisance,  and  he  left. 

"Then  a  man  came  of  a  very  lovely  spirit  and  with  beautiful  gifts 
as  a  preacher.  Mr.  Carrick  won  us  all  to  hear  and  love  him  who 
went  to  the  church,  but  his  health  gave  out  and  he  had  to  move 
away.  Then  the  old  vicar  died  presently,  and  a  deputation  went 
to  Hull  to  see  if  the  well-loved  curate  would  not  accept  the  living, 
for  if  he  would  we  would  petition  the  patron  to  give  it  to  him 
as  the  one  man  we  wanted,  and  even  'ware  brass'  some  said,  to 
make  things  smooth.  He  could  not  come;  his  health  was  too  del- 
icate, and  we  were  feeling  bad  enough  about  it  when  we  heard 
the  living  had  gone  to  a  Mr.  Snowdon.  So  when  this  rare  man 
came,  as  the  tide  was  rising,  it  was  also  making  against  him  you 
see.  We  noticed  at  once  also  that  Mr.  Snowdon  had  not  Mr. 
Carrick's  rare  gifts  as  a  preacher — very  few  men  have.  But  be 
was  simple,  sincere,  and  in  real  earnest." 


66        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

sit  down  on  a  great  grey  crag,  and  watch  the 
sunshine  ripple  over  the  heather,  while  the  music 
of  the  bells  in  the  old  tower  at  Haworth  .  .  . 
came  floating  on  the  sunmier  winds  and  mingled 
with  that  of  our  own  old  church,  where  the  Long- 
fellows  worshipped  many  hundred  years." 

Companions  were  not  many  at  this  time.  Some, 
like  two  drunken  apprentices,  whom  he  mentions 
in  the  shop,  w^ere  distasteful  to  the  finer  instincts 
of  self-respect  and  decent  rectitude  which  had 
been  so  diligently  cultivated  in  his  home,  and 
were  naturally  and  easily  avoided.  Others,  of  a 
different  character,  were  gladly  welcomed  to  his 
heart.  Thus  there  was  Edward  Dobson,  a  fellow 
apprentice  at  Birch's  anvil,  and  a  close  friend 
so  long  as  Collyer  remained  in  Ilkley.  Another 
well  remembered  associate  was  Edward  Stephen- 
son, with  whom  he  roomed  for  a  time  in  the  home 
of  his  brother,  Thomas  Stephenson.  Christopher 
Hudson  made  friends  with  Robert  through  his 
kindred  literary  interests,  as  did  Thomas  Smith, 
a  farmer's  lad,  and  together  the  young  men 
joined  a  library  club  which  was  being  organised 
in  the  village.  Down  the  dale,  at  Low  Anstly, 
dwelt  Robert  Metcalfe,  another  farm  boy,  who 
would  bring  his  master's  horses  to  the  smithy  to 
be  shod.  And  across  the  way  from  the  open 
forge  lived  Mary  Ann  Smith,  whose  mother  was 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  67 

an  old  friend  of  Harriett  Collyer.  More  casual 
acquaintances  were  John  Hardisty  and  his 
brother  William. 

Young  Collyer's  real  companions  at  this  time, 
however,  as  indeed  throughout  his  life,  were 
books.  The  fire  kindled  in  his  soul  on  the  day 
when  he  bought  "Whittington  and  His  Cat,"  in- 
stead of  the  candy,  with  his  penny,  had  never 
gone  out.  On  the  contrary,  it  had  burned  ever 
brighter  and  warmer  with  succeeding  years. 
Even  as  an  eight  or  ten  year  old  mill-hand,  with 
no  library  but  the  few  volumes  on  the  home- 
shelf,  the  boy  dreamed  dreams  at  his  work  in  the 
factory  about  what  he  would  like  to  do  when  he 
was  a  man,  *'and  this  was  not  to  be  a  sailor  or  to 
drive  a  stage-coach,  but  to  go  into  a  book-shop." 
By  the  time  he  came  to  Ilkley,  the  fire  had  grown 
into  a  conflagration  and  was  the  one  consuming 
interest  of  his  life.  His  work  at  the  anvil,  to 
which  he  was  faithful  and  in  which  he  soon  ex- 
celled, was  still,  in  the  perspective  of  his  inner- 
most soul,  but  an  interruption  or  a  postponement 
of  what  he  regarded  as  his  real  vocation.  "From 
the  time  when  I  used  to  read  Bunyan  and  'Cru- 
soe,' "  writes  the  Doctor,  "there  had  grown  up  in 
me  a  steady  hunger  to  read  all  the  books  I  could 
lay  my  hands  on."  He  read  at  all  times  and 
under  all  conditions,     "I  could  read  and  walk 


68        THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

four  miles  an  hour,"  he  tells  us,  **I  read  when  I 
was  blowing  the  bellows  in  the  forge,  and  in  the 
evening  when  there  was  no  candle  I  poked  my 
head  down  toward  the  open  fire,  and  never  ate  a 
meal  if  I  could  help  it  without  a  book  close  to  mv 
hand.  I  did  worse  than  this,  for  when  I  went 
a-eourting  my  wife,  I  read  all  the  books  in  her 
father's  house  instead  of — well  what's  the  use 
telling  what  I  ought  to  have  done,  only  this  I  may 
say,  that  if  she  had  not  been  the  best  lassie  in  all 
the  world  to  me,  as  well  as  the  bonniest,  she 
would  have  given  me  the  mitten,  and  served  me 
right." 

This  passion  for  literature  gathered  about  him 
young  friends  of  a  like  turn  of  mind,  as  we  have 
seen.  Three  of  these,  John  Hobson,  the  school- 
master, Ben  Whitley,  and  John  Dobson,  formed 
with  Robert  a  private  circle  for  reading  and 
studv.  Thev  were  wont  to  sit  too^ether  and  read 
at  nights  as  long  as  their  taUow  candle  would  hold 
out.  They  read  good  books,  too;  and  generally 
the  best  English  reviews.  They  read  aloud,  and 
in  turns.  Any  holiday  they  had  was  passed  in 
the  fields  reading,  and  the  parson  got  only  the 
dismal  Sundays,  the  bright  ones  being  passed  in 
a  larger  temple,  'T  can  hear  now  one  of  us  say- 
ing, *Xow,  Bob,  thee  take  a  turn,'  "  was  the  Doc- 
tor's memory  of  these  happy  days. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  69 

Of  these  three  cronies,  the  nearest  and  dearest 
was  John  Dobson,  whose  name  never  came  from 
Dr.  C Oliver's  lips  in  later  years  without  being 
caressed  with  lingering  affection.  The  influence 
and  service  of  this  man  were  the  most  beneficent 
that  came  into  his  life  at  this  time,  or  perhaps  at 
any  other.  Dobson  was  a  wool-comber  by  trade, 
but  a  man  who,  like  the  young  blacksmith  whom 
he  befriended,  had  a  passionate  interest  in  and 
love  for  books.  He  was  incomparably  the  best 
read  man  among  the  native  townsmen  of  Ilkley. 
His  chief  interest  was  in  metaphysics,  and  he  de- 
voured eagerly  all  volumes  which  "held  argu- 
ments with  you  deep  and  vital''  about  the  prob- 
lems of  God,  the  destiny  of  man,  and  the  spiritual 
nature  of  the  universe.  The  essays  of  John  Fos- 
ter and  of  Isaac  Taylor  were  favourites  of  his,  as 
well  as  stories  of  the  old  Scotch  Covenanters,  and 
of  all  heroes  who  had  fought  and  died  valiantly  to 
vindicate  the  inward  witness  of  their  souls.  But 
he  had  a  poetic  side  as  well;  for  Dr.  Collyer  re- 
lates of  him  that,  on  a  journey  on  foot  to  Scot- 
land, to  see  the  battlefield  of  Drumclog.  he  took 
pains  to  pass  through  Westmoreland,  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  great  poet,  Wordsworth,  and  was 
rewarded  by  seeing  him  sitting  on  a  chair  in  the 
sun  bv  the  door-wav  of  Dove  Cottaore. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  this  serious  and  sober 


70        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

man  was  drawn  to  Robert  CoUyer,  whose  heart 
burned  even  as  his  own  with  the  love  of  books. 
But  it  is  at  least  unusual  that  he  should  have  so 
dedicated  himself  to  the  service  of  this  young 
man,  who  was  no  less  than  ten  years  his  junior, 
and  almost  wholly  uneducated.  He  must  have 
seen  in  him  not  merely  the  kindred  passion  for 
the  printed  word,  but  some  suggestion  of  those 
great  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  which  were  des- 
tined later  to  make  the  rough  apprentice  a  leader 
of  his  generation.  However  this  may  be,  John 
Dobson  set  himself  devotedly  to  the  task  of  sup- 
plying young  Collyer  with  the  books  he  wanted. 
He  had  a  scant  wage,  but  he  was  a  bachelor  and 
thus  had  no  family  cares;  and  what  money  was 
his  was  Collyer's  also,  for  the  reading.  Volume 
after  volume,  he  brought  to  him  with  shining 
eyes;  together  they  read  and  discussed  the  pre- 
cious pages;  together  they  lived  and  moved  and 
had  their  being  in  this  other  and  greater  world 
of  thought.  What  wonder  that  the  book-hungry 
apprentice  loved  this  man,  and  in  later  years, 
when  fame  and  influence  were  his,  acknowledged 
a  debt  to  him  which  could  never  be  discharged! 
The  books  which  Robert  Collyer  read  in  these 
years  are  not  known  to  us  to  any  very  great  ex- 
tent. We  have  the  record  that  on  a  certain 
Christmas  day,  when  for  some  forgotten  reason 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  71 

he  could  not  go  home,  he  found  solace  in  a  bor- 
rowed copy  of  Washington  living's  "Sketch 
Book."  A  reference  to  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield" 
reveals  the  fact  that  this  was  the  first  novel  he 
had  ever  read.  A  chance  reminiscence  brings  us 
the  word  that  "on  a  day  I  can  still  recall,  a  still 
November  day,  when  the  mist  lay  on  the  halmes 
and  the  yellow  sunshine  touched  the  crags  on  the 
moor.  Cooper  came  to  me  with  'The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans,'  and  almost  persuaded  me  to  be  an 
Indian."  Still  again  he  recalls  the  early  day 
when  he  was  led  to  read  Scott's  Waverly  novels 
by  a  religious  book  which  denounced  them  as 
immoral,  "and  gave  quotations  to  prove  it." 
Macaulay's  "Essay  on  Bacon"  was  encountered 
at  this  time  and  deeply  admired.  Very  cu- 
rious is  his  statement  in  a  letter  read  at  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  celebration  of  Dr.  William  Henry 
Furness,  of  Philadelphia,  "Some  years  before  I 
emigrated  to  America,  my  soul  clove  to  him  as  I 
sat  one  day  in  a  little  thatched  cottage  in  the 
heart  of  Yorkshire,  and  read  'The  Journal  of  a 
Poor  Vicar.'  " 

These  memories  are  probably  a  not  inaccurate 
indication  of  the  kind  of  literary  material  that  he 
most  eagerly  devoured.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  trav- 
elled very  far  with  John  Dobson  on  his  journeys 
of  intellectual  exploration  into  the  wilderness  of 


72        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Scotch  metaphysics.  Philosophical  and  theo- 
logical treatises  were  read,  of  course,  just  as 
everything  that  was  a  book  was  read.  But  his 
early  passion  for  Burns  and  Shakespeare,  his 
later  love  for  Scott  and  Lamb,  Dickens,  Thacke- 
ray and  ISIacaulay,  and  his  unfailing  delight  in 
biography,  history  and  folk-lore,  show  clearly  in 
which  direction  he  inclined.  In  these  early  years, 
as  in  later  years,  he  read  not  in  any  deliberate  or 
systematic  way,  but  almost  wholly  for  the  mere 
joy  of  reading.  And  it  is  certain  that  it  was  not 
until  many  years  later,  when  the  process  of  evalu- 
ation was  not  wholly  an  unnatural  one,  that  he 
came  to  appreciate  the  significance  of  what  he 
was  doing  in  this  early  time.  "There  was  really 
no  idea,"  he  wrote,  "of  the  good  which  might 
come  out  of  it;  the  good  lay  in  the  books  into 
which  I  must  plunge  my  soul  headlong,  impas- 
sioned by  the  beauty  and  salt  of  truth.  I  had  no 
more  idea  of  being  a  minister,  than  that  I  should 
be  here  to  tell  this  story.  But  now  give  a  young 
man  passion  like  this  for  anything,  for  books, 
business,  painting,  teaching,  farming,  mechanics, 
or  music,  I  care  not  what,  and  you  give  him  a 
lever  to  lift  his  world,  and  a  patent  of  nobility, 
if  the  thing  he  does  is  noble.  So  shall  I  not  call 
this  my  college  course, — a  very  poor  college  and 
a  very  poor  course,  and  in  all  these  years  there 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  73 

has  been  no  time  when  I  have  not  felt  a  little  sad 
that  there  should  have  been  no  chance  for  me  at 
a  good  education  and  training ;  but  such  a  chance 
as  there  was,  lay  in  that  everlasting  hunger  to 
read  books."  And  a  chance,  may  we  not  add, 
not  merely  for  mental  but  for  moral  training  as 
well.  These  years,  as  we  have  seen,  had  their 
perils,  which  the  wholesome  tradition  of  the  old 
home  might  not  have  overcome,  had  it  not  been 
for  other  and  co-operating  influences.  And  of 
these,  by  all  odds  the  most  potent  was  the  com- 
panionship of  books.  "They  were  of  worth  to  me 
then,"  said  the  Doctor  in  a  moment  of  confession, 
"to  help  me  along  a  bit  in  the  right  direction;  for 
they  were  good  books  which  fell  into  my  hands, 
and  all  the  seed  did  not  fall  in  thorny  ground." 
And  so  the  years  passed — with  hard  work, 
long  rambles  on  the  moors,  occasional  visits  home, 
congenial  friends,  beloved  books!  It  was  largely 
a  wholesome  life,  with  little  to  challenge  in  any 
serious  way  the  young  blacksmith's  native  worth. 
In  1844,  on  his  twenty-first  birthday,  he  was  re- 
leased from  his  apprenticeship,  but  continued, 
without  interruption,  his  labour  at  Birch's  anvil. 
It  is  interesting  to  note  that,  in  later  years,  Dr. 
Collyer  was  inclined  to  assert  that  he  was  never 
much  of  a  workman — certainly  no  such  master 
artisan  as  his  father — for  his  heart,  as  he  said, 


74        THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

was  far  more  in  his  books  than  in  his  hammer. 
But  there  is  nevertheless  good  evidence  that  he 
must  have  been  something  more  than  an  ordi- 
nary artisan.  The  chief  item  on  this  count  must 
ever  be  the  famous  iron  gates  which  he  made  for 
the  parish  church-yard  at  Ilkley.  These  were 
"as  homely  as  a  barn  door,''  according  to  his 
testimony — so  homely  that  the  thought  of  them 
haunted  the  Doctor  in  after-time,  and  made  him 
resolve  that,  if  he  could  ever  find  the  money,  he 
would  some  day  replace  them  by  a  new  pair 
made  by  an  artist.  A  full  half-century-  after  the 
gates  had  left  his  forge,  however,  the  Doctor,  on 
a  return  visit  to  Ilkley,  took  occasion  to  examine 
them,  and  to  his  immense  satisfaction  discovered 
that  not  a  rivet  had  sprung  "in  the  clanging  back 
and  forth  tlirough  all  the  years."  3Iore  than  a 
dozen  years  later  still,  it  was  my  privilege  to  see 
these  gates,  and  my  equal  joy  to  discover  that 
they  were  still  in  first  class  condition.  Xor  did 
I  find  them  so  '"homely"  as  the  Doctor  had  al- 
ways pictured  them! 

Further  evidence  of  Collyer's  solid  work  as  a 
smith  is  found  in  the  fact  that  when  John  Birch 
died  in  1846,  he  thought  higlily  enough  of  his 
twenty-three  year  old  assistant  to  leave  him  the 
forge  in  his  will.  The  Lord  of  the  Manor,  to 
whom  the  property  belonged,  however,  would  not 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  75 

have  it  so,  as  he  felt  that  Collyer  was  too  young 
to  manage  the  business.  So  the  shop  was  let  to  a 
master  smith,  Sampson  Speight  by  name,  of  Mid- 
dleton;  and  Robert  was  hired  at  18  shillings  a 
week  to  take  charge  of  the  work.  This  was  a 
fortunate  chance,  as  it  happened,  for  it  left  him 
free  to  venture  elsewhere,  when  Ilkley  was  no 
longer  home  to  him.  Had  the  forge  become  his 
own  at  this  critical  moment,  it  is  at  least  possible 
that  the  whole  course  of  his  after  life  might  have 
been  changed. 

Although  not  technically  a  master,  Robert 
was  now  to  all  intents  and  purposes  his  own  man. 
Business  prospered,  and  within  a  short  time  he 
was  earning  the  highest  wage  for  a  smith  of  a 
pound  a  week.  This  looks  small  to  us  to-day,  but 
it  was  enough  in  the  England  of  the  '40s  to  main- 
tain a  home  and  keep  a  fire  burning  on  the  hearth, 
and  thus  to  make  inevitable  a  wife,  as  Ben  Frank- 
lin pointed  out  long  years  ago.  It  was  in  June, 
1846,  that  Collyer  married  Harriett  Watson, 
an  Ilkley  girl,  twenty-one  years  of  age.  Of  the 
courtship  we  know  little,  save  that  it  was  con- 
ducted under  some  difficulties,  as  she  was  a  work- 
ing girl  as  he  was  a  working  lad,  and  their  time 
was  scant.  Xor  was  this  available  time  always 
the  most  propitious.  "I  lost  my  heart  in  May," 
he  writes,  "and  spent  the  summer  trying  to  se- 


76        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

cure  another  to  fill  the  vacancy.  We  were  both 
busy  week-days,  and  so  we  took  Sunday  evenings. 
I  counted  thirteen  Sundays  in  succession  on 
which  it  rained,  and  we  had  to  court  under  an 
umbrella." 

All  this  was  forgotten  when  the  banns  were 
said,  the  union  joined,  and  the  lad  and  his  wife 
safely  ensconced  in  a  house  on  the  north  side  of 
Church  street.  Here  they  passed  the  first  radiant 
days  of  married  life ;  here  in  due  season,  on  July 
5,  1847,  was  born  a  son,  Samuel;  and  here  for 
many  a  happy  day  still  were  cherished  the  con- 
fident and  eager  hopes  of  youth.  Robert  CoUyer 
had  travelled  a  toilsome  if  not  unwholesome  road 
since  the  hour  when,  as  a  youngster  of  eight,  he 
had  begun  his  labours  in  the  mill  at  Blubber- 
houses.  Now  seventeen  years  later,  a  sturdy 
artisan  of  twenty-five,  he  had  found  his  work, 
established  his  home,  and  was  rearing  his  family. 
It  is  probable  that,  had  anybody  asked  him  at 
this  time,  he  would  have  said  that  his  life  was 
plotted  out  for  him  to  the  very  end.  And  yet, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  had  not  even  begun! 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  77 


CHAPTER  IV 

CRISIS  AND  CHANGE 

1848-1850 

— "Then  the  memory  comes  of  a  change  through  a 
great  sorrow  which  befell  me^  when  my  life  was  dark 
in  the  shadow  of  death." — R.  C.  in  "Some  Mem- 
ories^" page  28. 

In  1842  there  befell  the  first  of  a  series  of  like- 
events  which  shook  the  heart  of  our  young  man, 
at  first  as  a  slight  tremor  moves  the  ground,  and 
then  rent  it  as  an  earthquake,  till  all  things  were 
as  "chaos  and  black  night." 

On  May  29  of  this  year,  his  half-brother,  Wil- 
liam Wells,  the  son  of  Mrs.  Collyer  by  her  first 
marriage,  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-three.  The 
oldest  of  the  family  of  children  in  the  home,  Wil- 
liam had  been  a  close  companion  of  Robert 
through  all  the  years  of  childhood  and  early 
youth.  The  two  had  played  together  on  the 
moors,  worked  together  in  the  factory,  and  slept 
together  in  the  loft  of  the  old  stone  cottage.  In 
his  early  manhood,  William  was  stricken  with 


78        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

tuberculosis,  contracted  as  a  boy  in  the  cotton- 
mill,  and  had  for  some  time  been  peculiarly  de- 
pendent for  strength  and  comfort  upon  his 
younger  brother.  His  passing,  while  in  many 
ways  a  relief,  was  yet  the  snapping  of  a  link 
which  had  been  close-bound  from  the  very  first, 
days  of  life. 

Two  years  later,  in  July,  1844,  there  came  the 
word  that  Robert's  father  had  dropped  dead  at 
his  anvil.  In  1839,  something  over  a  year  after 
the  boy's  departure  for  Ilkley,  the  family  had  re- 
moved from  Blubberhouses  to  Leeds,  where 
Samuel  had  obtained  favourable  employment  at 
the  machine  works  of  Mr.  Peter  Fairbairn.  It 
was  here  that  he  died.  He  had  never  been  sick 
a  day  in  his  life,  but  for  some  time  before  this 
had  now  and  again  felt  a  peculiar  dizziness,  which 
had  served  as  a  slight  warning  to  his  family  of 
what  was  coming.  Young  Robert,  however,  had 
heard  nothing  of  this  in  Ilkley,  and  received  the 
news  of  his  father's  death,  therefore,  as  a  light- 
ning stroke  from  a  clear  sky. 

Another  interval  of  two  years  brought  the 
death  of  his  master,  "Jacky"  Birch,  to  which 
reference  has  already  been  made.  The  circum- 
stances attending  this  event,  rather  than  the 
event  itself,  seem  to  have  made  an  altogether  re- 
markable impression  upon  Robert  CoUyer's  mind. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  79 

For  three  months  after  Birch's  collapse  from 
drink,  writes  the  Doctor,  "I  attended  to  him; 
and  then  one  morning  as  I  was  lifting  him,  great 
gouts  of  blood  came  jetting  out  of  his  chest,  and 
in  a  few  moments  he  was  dead,  while  I  made  a 
pledge  to  the  Islost  High  that,  by  his  help  I  would 
not  be  buried  also  in  such  a  grave ;  and  the  result, 
as  I  think  of  it,  had  something  to  do  w4th  the  way 
I  must  go  from  the  anvil  to  the  pulpit." 

Then  finally,  as  a  last  stroke  beside  which  these 
other  losses  were  as  nothing,  came  the  death  of 
his  wife.  On  February  1,  1849,  only  a  little  over 
two  years  and  a  half  from  the  wedding-day,  the 
beloved  "lassie"  perished  in  child-birth,  and  was 
buried  in  the  village  grave-yard  with  her  babe, 
Jane,  who  had  died  three  days  later,  on  February 
4,  laid  tenderly  in  her  arms.  The  home  on  Church 
street  was  straightway  closed,  and  the  forlorn 
father,  with  his  first  child  Samuel  a  year  and  a 
half  old,  took  refuge  in  the  home  of  Thomas 
Stephenson  and  his  wife,  which  was  located  next 
door  to  the  blacksmith  shop. 

Of  this  event.  Dr.  Collyer  was  strangely  ret- 
icent throughout  his  life.  It  constituted  a  crisis 
of  such  moment  in  his  career  that  he  could  never 
pass  it  by  without  some  mention.  But  he  would 
refer  to  it,  in  writing  and  in  speech,  only  as  "a 
vast  and  an  awful  sorrow,"  and  say  no  more. 


80        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

This  was  a  silence  which  seems  to  have  begun,  as 
by  a  kind  of  necessity,  at  the  first  moment  of  his 
loss.  For  he  tells  us  that  he  consulted  not  "with 
flesh  and  blood,"  not  even  with  his  dearest  friend 
and  "good  helper,"  John  Dobson.  It  was  as 
though  there  were  feelings  here  too  deep  for 
words,  as  well  as  for  tears.  From  the  first  black 
hour  of  his  grief  to  the  last  sunny  moment  of  his 
active  years,  he  kept  this  experience  as  a  place  of 
holiness  which  only  he  might  enter.  A  man,  "the 
windows  of  (whose)  heart"  were  always  wide 
"open  to  the  day,"  he  yet  had  deep  and  at  times 
unexpected  reserves;  and  this  memory,  as  pre- 
cious as  it  was  pitiful,  was  the  deepest  of  them 
aU. 

The  effect  of  the  tragedy  upon  the  young  hus- 
band and  father  was  immediate  and  overwhelm- 
ing. It  marked,  indeed,  the  supreme  crisis  of  his 
career.  For  the  first  time  in  his  experience,  the 
beauty  seemed  to  go  out  of  the  world  and  the  joy 
of  living  to  vanish  from  his  heart.  For  the  first 
time  the  hammer  rang  dull  and  lifeless  on  the  an- 
vil. For  the  first  time  his  beloved  books  failed 
to  hold  his  mind  and  stir  the  deep  places  of  his 
soul.  Friends,  even  the  dearest,  were  shut  out 
completely  from  his  life.  "The  secret  lay  be- 
tween God  and  my  own  soul"  is  the  final  word 
in  his  autobiography. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  81 

Such  a  grief,  however,  though  sacred  beyond 
all  expression,  must  have  an  end,  and  this  ended 
in  "the  only  refuge  there  is  for  us  when  life  grows 
dark  in  the  shadows  of  death."  Robert  Collyer 
found  himself  thinking,  in  his  loneliness  and  sor- 
row, of  the  Sunday  school  on  the  hill  where  he 
had  gone  as  a  lad,  of  the  hymns  that  his  father 
had  sung,  of  the  prayers  that  his  mother  had 
heard,  of  the  Bible  on  the  book-shelf  in  the  old 
stone  cottage.  In  accordance  with  early  habit,  he 
had  always  attended  the  Ilkley  parish  church, 
but  had  never  been  as  a  young  man  what  is  com- 
monly called  "religious."  Now,  however,  his  ten- 
der and  deeply  wounded  heart  was  ready  for  a 
real  experience,  and  it  was  the  blaze  of  Wesley- 
anism  which  was  still  burning  hotly  over  the 
northern  moors,  which  "caught"  him.  Little  by 
little,  just  how  he  never  explained,  he  found  him- 
self going  to  the  meetings  of  the  Methodists,  his 
"neighbours  and  friends"  all  of  them,  in  a  little 
chapel  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Gradually 
he  was  moved  to  tell  them  "in  not  many  words 
how  it  was  with  (him),"  and  "they  gave  (him) 
a  warm  welcome."  Then,  on  a  famous  Sabbath 
night,  he  heard  a  local  preacher,  Flesher  Bland, 
preach  a  sermon,  "which  took  a  wondrous  hold" 
on  him,  and  "at  last  the  light  came."  "By  heaven's 
grace,"  he  underwent  "a  good  old-fashioned  con- 


82        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

version."  The  ^lethodists  took  him  "on  proba- 
tion," put  him  in  "owd  Jim  Delves's"  class  for 
proper  instruction;  and  in  a  few  weeks  received 
the  ardent  and  regenerated  young  man  into  the 
full  communion  of  the  church. 

Later  events  have  tended  somewhat  to  obscure, 
if  not  to  hide,  the  central  importance  of  this  oc- 
casion in  the  life  of  Robert  Collyer.  In  two  re- 
spects at  least,  however,  and  both  of  them  vital, 
this  conversion  to  ]\Iethodism  constituted  without 
doubt  a  critical  moment  in  his  career. 

On  the  one  hand,  it  introduced  him  for  the  first 
time  to  the  world  of  genuine  spiritual  experience. 
All  through  his  early  days,  as  we  have  seen,  he 
lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  religion,  which  acted 
as  a  determining  influence  upon  his  character. 
The  chapel  at  Bluhberhouses,  and  the  parish 
churches  at  Fewston  and  Ilkley,  were  familiar 
places,  and  the  home  on  the  moors  as  a  veritable 
altar.  But  the  great  deeps  of  the  inward  spirit  had 
not  been  uncovered,  until  the  death  of  the  young 
wife  and  mother  had  left  him  "desolate  and 
afraid";  and  even  then  the  living  waters  there 
confined  were  left  untouched  until  there  came  this 
great  crisis  of  the  soul.  Impressive  evidence  of 
what  Dr.  Collyer  himself  thought  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  this  moment  in  his  life,  is  given  in  a  pas- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  83 

sage  in  his  essay  on  William  Ellery  Channing.^ 
Speaking  of  a  similar  experience  in  the  early  ca- 
reer of  the  great  Unitarian  leader,  he  says,  "It  is 
the  habit  of  our  liberal  faith  to  make  light  of 
what  our  orthodox  brethren  call  a  change  of 
heart,  conversion,  and  the  new  birth;  but  I  say 
that,  once  truly  apprehended,  this  change  of 
heart,  or  conversion,  is  the  most  essential  human 
experience  of  which  I  have  any  knowledge,  and 
of  all  men  in  the  world  it  is  most  essential  to  the 
man  who  is  called  to  be  an  apostle  separated  unto 
the  gospel  of  God.  It  is  that  point  in  the  his- 
tory of  human  souls  at  which  we  pass  from  the 
first  man  of  the  earth  earthy,  to  the  second  man 
which  is  the  Lord  from  heaven.  ...  It  lifted 
Wesley  out  of  his  posturing  and  pondering  into 
the  front  rank  among  apostles,  made  a  new  man 
of  Thomas  Chalmers,  and  taught  Thomas  Guth- 
rie to  teach  ragged  schools.  And  so,  sweet  as  he 
was,  and  pure,  and  true,  Channing  had  to  go 
through  the  travail  of  the  new  birth  before  he 
could  begin  to  live  his  life  and  do  his  work;  he 
had  to  give  himself  utterly  to  God — to  count 
moral  attainment  secondary,  and  supreme  love 
to  the  Supreme  Love,  the  end  of  all  striving. 
.  .  .  This  is  Methodism,  you  say!  Well,  it  will 
be  a  long  time  before  I  deride  this  element  in 

^  See  "Clear  Grit,"  pages  17T-178. 


84        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Methodism,  fairly  and  truly  understood.  I  believe 
in  it  with  all  my  heart." 

A  second  result  of  this  conversion  was  the  great 
and  epoch-making  discovery  that  he  was  dowered 
with  the  divine  gift  of  speech.  Long  since,  dur- 
ing earlier  years,  in  his  frequent  wanderings  over 
the  moors,  he  had  found  himself  orating  to  the 
landscape  as  though  prompted  by  some  eager 
spirit  within  his  soul.  "Something  would  set  me 
thinking  and  talking  back,  as  we  say,  with  no 
audience  but  the  moor  sheep  that  were  all  about 
me,  and  would  look  up  in  wonder  as  to  what  it  all 
meant,  and  then  say.  Baa."  But  in  the  Meth- 
odist chapel  he  had  a  more  appreciative  audience, 
and  the  spirit  within  him  had  a  better  chance. 
Going  night  after  night  to  the  prayer-meetings, 
he  became  accustomed  to  standing  on  his  feet  and 
bearing  witness  to  his  experience  of  religion.  Lit- 
tle by  little  he  discovered  that  his  good  neigh- 
bours heard  him  gladly,  and  were  deeply  moved 
by  the  fervent  words  that  came  pouring  forth  out 
of  his  heart.  Nor  was  he  the  only  one  that  made 
this  discovery.  For  the  people  themselves  were 
soon  aware  that  they  were  listening  to  a  prophet 
and  were  resolved  to  use  him.  One  day  old  Mas- 
ter Delves  was  absent  from  his  class,  and  Tom 
Smith,  a  member,  speaking  up  from  across  the 
room,  urged  young  Collyer  to  lead  that  night. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  85 

He  was  frightened,  and  protested.  But  Smith 
was  persistent.  "Nah,  lad,"  was  his  word,  "tha 
mun  lead  t'class  to-neet;  tha  can  do't  if  tha  tries." 
The  decision  to  try  was  a  momentous  one,  for  it 
was  in  reality  the  casting  of  the  die  for  a  life-time. 
But  taking  hold,  he  led  with  complete  success, 
as  had  been  anticipated,  and  shortly  thereafter 
he  was  himself  made  leader  of  a  class. 

"Then,  some  weeks  later,  the  preacher  in 
charge  of  the  churches  in  our  dale  came  to  see  me 
and  tell  me  this  story — ^how  the  brethren  in  the 
local  conference  had  risen  up  one  by  one  and  said 
it  had  been  borne  in  on  them  that  I  had  a  call  to 
preach.  They  were  rustical  men  who  made  their 
own  living  as  artisans  or  small  farmers,  and 
preached  on  Sunday  and  'find  yourself  for  the 
love  of  God  and  of  human  souls.  Now  what  do 
you  think  of  it,  the  preacher  said?  And  I  an- 
swered, I  thought  they  were  right — I  was  ready 
when  he  was  ready  to  give  me  a  chance.  Are 
you  sure?  he  said.  Yes,  I  answered,  and  went  to 
work  when  I  got  home  to  think  out  a  sermon." 

From  this  time  on,  he  was  a  lay-preacher. 
Every  Sunday,  when  the  fires  were  banked  in 
the  forge  and  the  leathern  apron  laid  aside,  the 
stalwart  young  blacksmith  went  trudging  across 
the  moors  or  over  the  hills,  to  meet  some  little 
group  of  Methodists  and  speak  to  them  of  the 


86        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

deep  things  of  the  spirit.  Sometimes  he  talked 
in  little  chapels;  more  often  in  kitchens  or  tap- 
rooms or  workshops;  once  in  a  while,  like  the 
great  John  Wesley  himself,  out  under  the  open 
skies,  by  some  cross-roads  or  in  some  harvest 
field.  Then  on  the  Monday'-  the  fires  were  blazing 
again  in  the  smithy,  and  the  hammer  ringing 
with  a  right  good-will  upon  the  anvil.  Gradu- 
ally, under  the  influences  of  these  new  experi- 
ences, the  young  man  found  beauty  creeping  back 
into  the  world,  and  peace  and  joy  taking  their 
wonted  places  in  his  heart.  His  work  began  to 
hold  him  as  before.  His  books  were  again  the 
solace  and  inspiration  of  every  moment  that  he 
could  call  his  own.  His  friends  were  gathered 
again  into  his  embrace,  and  beloved  John  Dobson 
was  received  once  more  into  the  sacred  and  secret 
places  of  his  soul.  Sorrow  had  endured  for  a 
night,  but  joy  had  come  with  the  morning! 

The  experiences  of  the  young  preacher  in  his 
apostolic  ventures  were  varied,  and  furnished 
vast  amusement  as  well  as  tender  thought  in  the 
recollections  of  after  years.  The  first  appoint- 
ment was  three  miles  up  the  river,  at  "a  gaunt 
place"  called  Addingham,  "and,  as  I  found,  to 
a  handful  of  hearers.  The  sermon  was  all  ready. 
It  was  divided  into  three  parts.  The  firstly  and 
lastly  were  my  own;  the  secondly  I  stole"  from 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  87 

the  sermon  of  a  good  Scotch  divine,  McCheyne 
by  name,  published  in  the  "Christian  Treasury." 
Now  "this  was  what  came  of  my  first  sermon. 
You  must  use  no  notes,  this  was  the  order,  so  I 
had  none,  but  stumbled  along  somehow  to  the  end. 
.  .  .  After  all  was  over,  as  I  wended  home,  sud- 
denly as  if  a  voice  had  cried  Halt,  I  halted,  for  it 
came  to  me  in  a  flash  that  I  had  forgotten  that 
brave  and  wonderful  secondly,  far  away  the  best 
word  I  had  to  say;  while  a  dear  friend  and 
brother  preacher  met  me  not  long  after  and  told 
me  how  he  had  stood  behind  a  screen  to  listen  and 
thought  fairly  well  of  the  sermon  as  a  first  effort, 
but  there  was  one  curious  thing  about  it  I  must 
bear  in  mind.  There  seemed  to  be  a  wide  gap 
between  the  firstly  part  and  the  lastly!  And 
twenty-five  years  after,  when  we  met  in  Canada, 
I  told  him  what  was  the  matter  with  that  first 
effort,  and  how  by  good  rights  my  text  should 
have  been,  'Thou  shalt  not  steal.'  While  in  all 
honesty  I  may  say  that  from  then  until  now  I 
have  stood  true  to  Paul's  exhortation,  Let  him 
that  stole,  steal  no  more. 

"I  make  a  clean  breast  of  this,"  continues  the 
Doctor,  "for  two  reasons.  First,  my  sin  found 
me  out.  Now  if  there  are  degrees  in  sin,  it  might 
be  thought  that  a  man  who  steals  one-third  of  a 
sermon,  is  only  one-third  as  bad,  shall  we  say,  as 


88        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

the  man  who  steals  a  whole  sermon;  still  I  was 
in  for  it  all  the  same,  because  St.  James  says 
truly,  or  did  to  me,  'Whosoever  shall  offend  in 
one  point,  he  is  guilty  of  all.'  So  I  was  cast  back 
on  myself,  while  there  was  cold  comfort  in  the 
thought  that  I  had  meant  to  do  a  mean  thing,  and 
had  failed  to  do  it.  This  is  the  first  reason  why 
I  have  felt  free  to  tell  the  story,  and  the  second 
is  that  this  offence  opened  the  way  to  my  ordina- 
tion as  a  Methodist  local  preacher. 

"I  had  no  special  eagerness  to  try  again,"  con- 
tinues the  Doctor,  "and  thought  they  would  not 
want  me,  but  they  did  not  know  my  secret  and 
said  I  must  try  again.  So  the  good  old  man  in 
charge  sent  me  to  a  farmhouse  one  Sunday  on  the 
lift  of  the  moor,  where  they  only  had  preaching 
now  and  then,  and  where  I  suppose  he  thought 
poor  provender  might  pass  where  the  feasts  were 
few  and  far  between. 

"It  was  in  June.  I  can  see  the  place  still,  and 
am  aware  of  the  fragrance  of  the  wild  uplands 
stealing  through  the  open  lattice  in  bars  of  sun- 
shine to  mingle  with  the  pungent  snap  of  the  peat 
fire  on  the  hearthstone,  which  gives  forth  the 
essence  of  the  moorlands  for  a  thousand  years. 
And  I  mind  still  how  heavy  my  heart  was  that 
afternoon.  .  .  .  Still  I  must  try,  and  mind  my 
good  mother's  words,  who  would  say  to  us,  No 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  89 

matter  how  poor  you  are,  children,  don't  look 
poor  and  don't  tell.  They  were  simple-hearted 
folk  up  there  of  the  old  Methodist  brand,  eager 
and  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life,  and  very  ready 
to  come  in  with  the  grand  Amen.  The  big  farm 
kitchen  was  full  of  them,  and  they  were  just  the 
hearers  to  help  a  poor  fellow  over  the  sand  bar 
on  the  lift  of  their  full  hearts.  So  they  sang  with 
a  will — and  in  all  the  world  where  will  you  hear 
such  singing  with  a  will  as  in  old  Yorkshire  and 
Lancashire!  Then  I  must  pray  with  them.  .  .  . 
Then  the  time  for  the  sermon  came  after  another 
hymn,  when  some  stammering  words  came  to  my 
lips  and  then  some  more,  while  gleams  of  light 
began  to  play  about  my  parable.  And  their  eyes 
began  to  shine  who  listened,  while  now  and  then 
the  Amens  came  in  for  a  chorus  from  the  chests 
of  men  who  had  talked  to  each  other  in  the  teeth 
of  the  winds  up  there  from  the  times  of  the  Sax- 
ons and  the  Danes.  And  now  after  all  these  years 
I  still  feel  sure  it  was  given  me  that  afternoon 
what  I  should  say  and  given  them  to  answer, 
while  I  might  say  by  grace  I  was  saved  through 
faith,  but  then  you  see  this  would  still  leave  me 
tilting  with  a  borrowed  plume,  because  the  faith 
would  be  mine,  and  I  had  none  worth  the  name 
of  my  own. 

"So  the  service  ended  and  then  the  good  man 


90        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

of  the  house  came  and  laid  his  hands  on  me  and 
said  very  tenderly,  'My  lad,  the  Lord  has  called 
thee  to  preach  His  gospel.  The  Lord  bless  thee 
and  make  thee  faithful  in  His  work,'  and  all  the 
people  said  Amen.  .  .  .  When  I  think  of  that 
afternoon  on  the  moor  side,  I  feel  I  would  not 
like  to  exchange  this  simple  ordination  of  mine 
from  the  heart  and  hands  of  the  old  farmer  for 
that  of  any  holiness  or  eminence  on  earth.  And 
again  this  is  a  story  with  a  purpose,  or  else  I 
would  not  tell  it.  That  invasion  from  on  high 
helped  greatly  to  put  me  in  heart,  and  deepen  the 
intuition,  shall  I  call  it,  that  I  had  a  call  to  preach, 
and  need  not  filch  from  Scot  or  lot  for  what  I 
must  say,  as  one  to  whom  a  full  and  clear  spring 
has  been  revealed  need  not  care  for  the  cistern." 
Another  wonderful  memory  of  these  early  days 
of  prophesying  was  that  of  the  Sunday  when  he 
first  preached  in  the  home  chapel  at  Ilkley.  Ru- 
mours of  the  ordination  sermon  far  away  on  the 
moors  must  have  been  carried  back  promptly  to 
the  town,  for  it  was  on  the  very  next  Sunday 
evening  that  he  was  invited  to  preach  to  his  own 
folks.  Dr.  Collyer  records  that  he  was  proud  of 
this  appointment,  as  well  he  might  be;  and  the 
text  was  chosen  and  the  sermon  prepared  for  the 
occasion  with  especial  care.  It  was  plainly  what 
is  known  as  an  "effort,"  but  later  years  retained 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  91 

only  the  recollection  of  the  thorn  planted  in  the 
flesh  by  a  certain  shoemaker,  "a  thoughtful  man," 
who  failed  lamentably  in  his  task  of  being  prop- 
erly impressed! 

The  question  as  to  what  kind  of  preaching  was 
done  by  the  ardent  young  blacksmith  in  these 
first  days  of  apostolic  pioneering  is  not  difficult 
to  answer  in  the  light  of  the  evidence  available. 
Dr.  Collyer  himself  never  cherished  any  fond 
illusions.  Recalling  the  fact  that  he  was  invited 
by  the  JNIethodist  elder  to  preach  "for  nothing  a 
Sunday  and  find  myself,"  he  comments  sagely 
that  this  was  "mighty  poor  pay,  but  then  it  was 
mighty  poor  preaching."  The  criticisms  passed 
by  certain  of  his  friends  and  neighbours  would 
seem  to  bear  out  the  accuracy  of  this  judgment. 
The  shoemaker's  thorn  above  referred  to  on  the 
occasion  of  the  Ilkley  discourse,  was  none  other 
than  the  following  harsh  verdict  on  the  evening's 
work.  "Ah  want  to  speak  to  tha,  lad,"  said  the 
honest  listener  on  the  next  morning,  as  Robert 
Collyer  "proud  of  (his)  effort,"  passed  the  door 
of  the  cobbling  shop  on  his  way  to  the  forge. 
"Ah  went  to  hear  tha  preach  last  night."  "Did 
tha?"  was  the  eager  inquiry.  "Does  tha  w^ants 
to  knaw  what  ah  thought  of  it,"  continued  the  im- 
perturbable shoemaker.  "Well,  if  tha  wants  to 
knaw,  ah  w^ant  to  tell  tha.     Tha'U  never  mak  a 


92        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

preacher  while  tha  lives!"  Then,  seeing  how  his 
harsh  criticism  had  pained  and  depressed  the 
budding  preacher,  and  being  a  kind-hearted  fel- 
low, he  quickly  added,  "Don't  mistake  what  ah 
mean.  Tha  won't  make  a  preacher  for  us  in  t' 
Methodist  church.  Tha  may  do  somewhere  else, 
but  tha  won't  do  for  us.  When  tha  preaches  a 
sermon  tha  must  say,  'Thus  saith  the  Lord,'  and 
not  lose  thi  way  reasoning  about  it.  Ah  fear 
tha'll  want  to  reason  ower  much,  an'  if  tha  does 
tha'U  have  to  git  away." 

Somewhat  more  comforting,  and  certainly 
much  fuller  of  understanding,  was  the  comment 
of  another  neighbour  on  the  same  sermon  in  the 
Ilkley  chapel.  "I  met  the  miller,"  said  Dr. 
CoUyer,  telling  the  tale  in  after  years,  "and  he 
said,  *Ah  heard  tha  preach  last  night.'  I  said, 
*Did  you,  sir?'  He  said,  'Ah'll  tell  tha  what 
they're  going  to  do  wi'  thee.  They're  going  to 
make  a  spare  rail  of  thee — they'll  put  thee  into 
every  gap  there  is.    Now  thee  look  out.'  " 

That  the  preaching  of  Robert  CoUyer  in  these 
days  of  apostleship  to  the  Yorkshire  Methodists 
was  crude,  rough,  unformed  in  the  extreme,  may 
be  not  unsafely  conjectured.  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive,  even  in  the  light  of  later  extraordinary 
achievements,  that  this  young  and  untrained  ar- 
tisan developed  at  this  time  anything  other  than 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  93 

the  most  elemental  qualities  of  utterance.  And 
yet,  from  the  beginning,  there  must  have  been  a 
full  supply  of  that  pithy  wisdom  and  homely  wit 
which  never  failed  him  to  the  end,  much  of  that 
vigour,  originality  and  native  charm  which  were 
so  supremely  his  characteristics  in  his  best  days 
as  a  preacher,  and  something  even  of  that  poetic 
beauty,  sweet  human  tenderness  and  profound 
understanding  of  the  common  heart  of  man, 
which  remained  forever  the  real  secret  of  his 
power.  Certainly  there  was  spontaneity  if  noth- 
ing more — that  spontaneity  of  thought  and  speech 
which  is  as  refreshing  as  the  full  tide  of  a  sum- 
mer stream,  and  to  the  shrewd,  sharp-witted,  but 
all  too  often  tongue-tied  denizens  of  the  country- 
side, as  glad  a  miracle  as  "the  over-plus  of  blos- 
som" in  the  spring.  The  canny  elder  of  the 
home  district  knew  what  he  was  doing  when  he 
asked  this  whole-souled  young  blacksmith  to 
preach  at  Addingham.  The  full-voiced  dales- 
men in  the  farm  kitchen  were  not  deceived  when 
they  chanted  their  chorus  of  Amens  in  answer  to 
the  lad's  appeals.  The  devout  old  farmer  was 
moved  by  a  real  prompting  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
when  he  laid  his  hands  upon  the  preacher's  head 
and  pledged  him  solemnly  to  God's  service.  Even 
the  observations  of  the  shoemaker  and  the  miller 
show  the  impression  of  rude  but  genuine  power 


94.        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

which  their  townsman's  word  had  made  upon 
them.  There  were  times,  of  course,  when  strength 
seemed  to  fail  him;  but  more  frequent  I  must  be- 
lieve was  such  an  experience  as  that  *'on  the  lift 
of  the  moor"  when  "it  was  given  (him) ,"  he  knew 
not  how  nor  why,  "what  (he)  should  say."  The 
true  spring  of  living  water  was  in  him,  and  it 
needed  only  the  deep-cut  channel  to  give  it  easy 
and  abundant  flow. 

"There  was  many  a  Sunday,"  he  says,  "when  it 
was  like  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells.  There 
was  no  preparation  possible  for  me  like  that  so 
priceless  through  the  books  and  masters.  I  must 
come  at  my  purpose  in  some  other  way.  But 
now  and  then  as  I  would  be  hard  at  work^  some 
thought  would  grow  luminous  for  earth  and 
heaven,  and  be  as  the  seed  that  groweth  secretly, 
and  then  there  would  be  no  trouble  when  the 
right  time  came  for  the  reaping.  Or  one  would 
elude  me,  do  what  I  would.  Yet  there  would  be 
a  day  of  redemption  when  the  truth  I  could  not 
capture  would  lift  me  on  its  wings  and  turn  the 
croak  I  had  felt  I  must  make  into  a  new  song. 
One  of  these  Sundays  I  well  remember.  I  had 
walked  twelve  miles  to  preach,  with  my  heart 
like  a  lump  of  lead,  for  there  seemed  to  be  no  ac- 
cent of  the  Holy  Ghost  in  the  word  I  must  say. 
But  it  was  rare  listening  and  good  answer  in  a 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  95 

small  chapel  I  found  in  an  old  farm  kitchen,  and 
I  spoke  two  hours  and  wist  not  of  the  time,  nor 
as  it  seemed  did  they." 

There  was  something  over  a  year  of  this  preach- 
ing up  and  down  the  dale.  Six  days  in  the  week, 
it  was  hard  work  at  the  anvil;  and  then,  on  the 
seventh  day,  it  was  the  glad  release  to  preach  the 
gospel  near  or  far.  Into  this  new  and  glorious  ac- 
tivity, Robert  Collyer  seemed  to  be  thrusting  firm 
and  strong  the  new  roots  of  a  new  life.  But  as 
time  went  on,  it  became  more  and  more  evident 
that  the  roots  were  not  holding.  The  earthquake 
ofsudden  sorrow  had  broken  up  the  soil  too  widely 
and  deeply  for  him  really  to  catch  hold  again  and 
flourish.  The  new  planting  must  have  new  soil. 
Therefore  did  he  ponder  emigration — at  first  to 
Australia,  w^hither  he  had  offers  of  help  for  the 
journey,  but  finally  and  at  last  definitely  to 
America. 

The  idea  of  this  venture  to  strange  lands  across 
the  seas  was  in  the  beginning  an  echo  of  the  hopes 
which  his  parents  had  early  cherished,  as  we  have 
seen.  "Before  I  was  born,"  he  says,  "my  father 
and  mother  wanted  to  emigrate  to  this  new  world, 
but  they  could  not  raise  the  money  to  bring  them 
over,  and  all  through  my  childhood  I  can  still 
hear  them  speaking  of  their  regret  that  they 
would  never  be  able  to  cross  the  sea  to  these 


96        THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

states.  And  so  I  grew  up  with  the  longing  to 
come  here,  I  think,  in  the  very  marrow  of  my 
bones." 

As  time  went  on,  the  economic  motive  began 
to  play  a  prominent  part  in  his  speculations. 
Life  in  England  in  those  days  was  a  hard  and 
often  wearying  struggle  for  bare  subsistence. 
The  big  loaf  had  not  yet  come  into  the  English 
labourer's  home  as  it  did  after  the  repeal  of  the 
Corn  Laws.  "Fifty  cents,"  writes  the  Doctor, 
"was  all  you  got  for  shoeing  a  horse  all  round, 
and  as  your  Yorkshire  horse  has  big  feet,  this 
left  me  a  very  small  margin."  Better  living  than 
this  was  wanted,  "because  I  always  believed  that 
good  living,  if  you  take  care  of  yourself,  has 
something  to  do  with  a  good  life."  He  had  no 
extravagant  financial  ambitions.  "My  ideal  fu- 
ture," he  writes,  "was  not  a  great  one.  My  whole 
ambition  was  to  make  m}^  way  as  a  blacksmith. 
But  I  wanted  a  place  where  I  could  have  a  little 
home  of  my  own,  with  books  to  read,  and  the 
chance  to  educate  my  children.  I  mind  that  I 
pictured  to  myself  a  quiet  little  cottage  in  a 
Pennsylvania  village,  where  I  should  live  with 
my  wife  and  my  children  yet  to  come.  In  my 
picture  I  painted  a  pretty  library,  and  plenty  of 
]»ooks,  and  a  garden.  I  told  my  desires  to  my 
friends.  They  all  tried  to  dissuade  me  from  them. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  97 

They  offered  me  letters  to  get  work  anywhere 
save  in  America.  But  at  last  I  started,  and,  as 
I  expected,  when  I  got  here,  I  found  every  one 
ready  to  help  me  along.  At  our  first  Christmas 
dinner  we  had  a  turkey  smoking  on  the  table — 
a  bird  which  in  England  I  had  no  more  thought 
we  should  ever  eat  of  than  I  did  of  eating  the 
American  eagle." 

Other  motives  also  had  their  determining  influ- 
ence on  this  adventure.  Thus  Dr.  Collyer  writes 
in  one  place  that  he  wanted  "not  to  be  a  cipher  in 
a  monarchy,  but  a  citizen  in  a  republic.  I  had 
no  vote;  I  wanted  one,  and  also  to  learn  how  to 
use  it  honestly  and  well.  I  had  to  bow  and 
cringe  before  men  who  had  rank  and  title.  I 
hated  to  do  it,  as  they  say  one  I  must  not  name 
hates  holy  water." 

But  no  one  of  these  motives,  nor  all  of  them  to- 
gether, perhaps,  might  have  availed,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  crisis  and  change  recorded  in  this 
chapter.  The  death  of  his  young  wife,  with  the 
conversion  to  Methodism  which  followed,  con- 
stituted the  profoundest  experience  he  had  ever 
known.  The  old  familiar  world  was  suddenly 
lost,  and  a  new  world  found.  Life,  which  had 
hitherto  been  a  simple  round  of  working,  playing, 
reading,  living,  now  took  on  something  of  the 
stem  aspects  of  duty  and  sacrifice.    Religion, 


98        THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

which  had  always  been  a  sober  reality,  now  be- 
came transfigured  into  an  enthusiasm,  a  convic- 
tion, a  consuming  passion.  In  his  sorrow,  he  had 
wandered  blind  and  stumbling  into  waste  places, 
and  been  lost.  As  a  result  of  his  conversion,  he 
had  recovered  his  sight  and  found  his  way  into 
quiet  paths  of  peace.  Lender  the  influence  of 
3Iethodist  teaching  and  habit,  he  had  laid  hold 
at  last  on  those  well-springs  of  spiritual  insight, 
those  living  fountains  of  human  sympathy,  those 
great  deeps  of  faith  in  the  power  and  the  love  of 
God,  upon  which  he  drew  so  abundantly  and  un- 
failingly in  his  later  years  as  pastor  and  preacher. 
In  the  most  hteral  sense  of  the  word,  he  had 
undergone  a  "new  birth,"  entered  upon  a  new 
life,  become  a  new  man.  What,  therefore,  more 
natural,  nay  inevitable,  than  that  he  should  be- 
gin to  dream  of  other  lands,  and  at  last,  in  due 
season,  like  another  Abraham,  go  out,  "not 
knowing  whither  he  went"  I  He  had  started  all 
over  again  in  the  things  of  the  spirit — why 
should  he  not  similarly  start  all  over  again  in 
the  things  of  the  flesh?  A  new  world  without,  as 
a  reflection  or  rather  expression  of  the  new  world 
within — this  had  become  a  necessity! 

As  early,  therefore,  as  the  closing  months  of 
1849,  Robert  CoUyer  had  made  his  decision  to 
emigrate  to  the  L^nited  States.    It  was  not  easy 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  99 

to  make  the  change  all  at  once,  so  that  many 
weeks  passed  away  before  he  laid  down  his  ham- 
mer on  "Jacky"  Birch's  old  anvil  and  closed  the 
smithy  door  for  the  last  time.  By  the  spring-tide, 
however,  everything  was  ready,  and,  as  a  fitting 
sjTnbol  of  the  close  of  the  old  life  in  England  and 
the  beginning  of  the  new  life  in  America,  he 
pledged  hand  and  heart,  on  April  9,  18.50,  to 
Ann  Armitao^e.  daup^hter  of  a  cloth-maker  in  the 
town,  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  'the  woman 
who  was  to  be  by  far  my  better  half  through  more 
than  foiiy  years."  He  had  not  thought  to  marry 
again.  The  vials  of  his  love  would  seem  to  have 
been  empty.  But  his  besetting  loneliness,  the 
sight  of  his  motherless  child,  the  need  of  a  wife 
and  home-maker  in  the  new  land,  above  all  the 
tenderness  and  fidelity  of  one  sweet  Ilkley  lass, 
did  their  perfect  work,  and  in  this  relation  as  in 
others,  he  resolved  to  enter  upon  a  new  life.  Long 
after  this  companion  of  his  years  had  passed 
away,  Dr.  Collyer  loved  to  recall  the  ''memories 
of  a  time,  when,"  as  he  put  it  in  his  inimitable 
speech,  'T  saw  her  sitting  in  the  sunshine  on  a 
hill-side,  and  wondered  whether  this  might  not  be 
the  woman  in  all  the  world  that  God  had  placed 
here  for  me,  who  would  make  good  my  broken 
life,  which  had  been  stricken  with  great  sorrow. 
And  of  a  day,  not  very  long  after,  when  the  word 


100      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

of  the  Lord  came  to  me,  as  I  most  surely  believe, 
saying,  *G^t  thee  out  from  thy  kindred  and  from 
thy  father's  house  unto  a  land  that  I  will  show 
thee':  and  how  it  seemed  so  hard,  when  we  had 
plighted  our  troth,  to  ask  this  maiden,  whose  life 
had  lain  in  fairer  lines  than  mine,  to  go  with  me 
into  this  unknown  world,  that  I  begged  that  I 
might  come  first  and  find  work  and  start  a  home. 
.  .  .  But  I  can  still  see  the  clear  shining  in  her 
eyes  and  hear  the  very  tones  of  her  voice  as  she 
answered  me  from  the  holy  book.  'Whither  thou 
goest,  I  will  go,  and  whither  thou  lodgest,  I  will 
lodge.  Thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy 
God  my  God.  The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more 
also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee  and  me.'  And 
then  I  knew  something  of  the  gift  that  had  come 
to  me  in  the  great  and  loyal  heart." 

And  so,  on  a  Tuesday,  April  9,  1850,  these  two 
were  wed.-  On  Wednesday  they  started  for 
Liverpool,  leaving  the  baby,  Samuel,  in  the  safe 
care  of  Mother  Collyer  in  Leeds,  until  the  home 
across  the  seas  could  be  established.  On  Satur- 
day, April  13,  they  "set  sail  in  an  old  ship  called 

'  "If  we  had  taken  stock  in  omens,  there  was  one  at  the  wedding, 
for  the  verv  ancient  minister  who  married  us,  began  with  the 
burial  service  in  solonn  accents,  and  the  clerk  who  must  sav  the 
Amens,  rushed  on  him,  took  the  book  from  his  hand,  and  set  him 
right" — R.  C.  in  "Lecture  on  Dr.  Fumess." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  101 

the  Rosciu^j  and  in  the    t^erage,  to  seek  (their) 
fortunes  in  this  new  -  : :  _:   * 

That  this  departure  was  easy  is  not  for  a  mo- 
ment to  be  believed.  Behind,  to  be  sure,  were 
struggle,  weariness,  sorrow,  and  a  blind  alley; 
before  were  opportunity,  promise,  and  an  open 
road.  But  behind  also  were  all  the  precious 
treasures  of  Robert  Collyer's  heart.  The  mother 
in  Leeds,  who  carried  in  her  face  the  beauty  of 
those  early  years  in  Washbumdale ;  the  friends  in 
Ilkley  town,  who  had  grown  to  know  and  love 
this  stalwart  smith  with  the  tongue  of  flame :  the 
pleasant  moors  aglow  with  heather  and  ringing 
with  the  songs  of  birds:  the  long  winter  nights 
close  by  the  fire  with  open  book  to  enlighten  and 
beguile :  the  quiet  grave  by  the  church  where  had 
ended  his  first  love  and  his  first  life — ^these  were 
some  of  the  things  that  he  was  leaving.  And  be- 
fore him  also  was  not  merely  promise,  but  tbat 
**liazard  of  new  fortunes"  which  is  quite  as  often 
disaster  as  it  is  victory.  We  may  well  believe, 
therefore,  that  the  moment  of  leave-takins: 
wrenched  the  heart.  There  was  comfort  in  the 
Bible  and  its  accompanying  commentary  which 
first  among  his  few  books  he  had  stowed  away  in 
his  pack:  there  was  joy  in  the  brave  young  wom- 
an who  had  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  resolved  to 
lodge  where  he  lodged,  and  die  where  he  died; 


102      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

there  were  challenge  and  inspiration  in  the  ad- 
venturous path  in  which  together  these  two  had 
set  their  feet.  But  when  he  turned  away  for  the 
last  time,  it  must  have  been  his  farewell  to  his 
mother,  his  last  moment  in  the  quiet  after-glow 
of  evening  by  the  unmarked  grave,  and  the  blank 
uncertainty  of  the  future  which  were  uppermost 
in  his  thoughts.  What  did  it  all  mean?  Where 
was  he  going?  When  should  he  return?  What 
was  to  befall?  "I  remember,"  he  says,  "how  I 
stood  at  a  sharp  turn  of  the  road  to  take  a  last 
look  at  the  old  place,  it  might  be  forever,  and  how 
I  said  to  myself — I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  meet 
my  old  comrades  again,  and  if  I  do,  will  they  be 
glad  to  see  me,  or  will  they  pity  me  and  say,  Poor 
fellow,  he  made  a  great  mistake.  It  really  was 
an  adventure,  which  might  have  touched  a  stead- 
ier nerve  than  mine.  I  had  never  been  forty  miles 
from  the  spot  in  which  I  was  born,  never  seen  a 
ship  or  the  sea,  and  didn't  know  a  living  soul  on 
this  continent  I  could  go  to  for  advice,  or  for  a 
grasp  of  the  hand." 

It  was  a  moment  as  sad  as  it  was  brave.  But 
could  he  have  looked  forward  as  later  he  was  able 
to  look  back,  he  would  have  been  relieved  of  fu- 
ture fears  if  not  of  past  regrets.  In  after  days  he 
saw  with  clearness  that  his  very  decision  to  go 
and  begin  anew  was  itself  the  warrant  of  his  sue- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  103 

cess.  For  this  was  no  idle  whim  or  despairing 
venture.  It  was  a  resolve  made  of  that  fibre  of 
creative  manhood,  which  the  world  can  never 
wholly  overcome.  "I  think  I  may  say,"  the  Doc- 
tor wrote  years  afterwards,  of  this  turning-point 
in  his  career,  "I  had  my  father's  and  mother's  gift 
in  a  certain  power  to  hold  my  own,  and  to  see  a 
thing  through  when  I  had  once  made  up  my 
mind."  He  might,  therefore,  have  been  of  good 
cheer,  for  the  future,  though  hidden,  was  secure, 
even  as  the  past. 


104      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


CHAPTER   V 

AMERICA! 
1850-1858 

"The    light  ...  on    these    States."— R.    C.    in 
"Some  Memories/'  page  42. 

The  voyage  to  America  was  anything  but  agree- 
able. Steamers  were  crossing  the  Atlantic,  but 
the  Ilkley  blacksmith  and  his  bride  had  no  money 
to  spend  for  time  or  comfort,  and  therefore  took 
passage  in  a  sailing  vessel.  This  craft  was  styled 
"the  good  ship  Roscius''  in  the  posters;  but  our 
emigrant  pair  were  not  many  days  "out  of" 
Liverpool,  before  they  "concluded  that  she  should 
have  been  named  the  Atrocious,  so  full  she  was  of 
evil  smells — and  the  bilge-water  in  our  poor 
cabin,  while  the  food  for  which  we  had  paid  good 
money  of  the  realm  was  so  bad  that  I  can  imagine 
no  workhouse  now  in  England,  or  prison,  where 
it  would  not  create  a  riot."  It  was  an  unhappy 
bridal  trip,  but  it  had  its  ending  in  just  "one 
month  to  a  day,"  when  on  May  11,  1850,  the 
travellers  reached  New  York. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  105 

As  they  looked  upon  the  city,  they  realised 
with  a  fresh  poignancy,  their  utter  loneliness  in 
this  new  land  which  was  to  be  their  home.  Not  a 
soul  was  here  who  knew  them,  or  could  give  them 
greeting.  "I  remember,"  writes  the  Doctor, 
*'how  we  said  when  we  saw  the  land,  How  good  it 
would  be  if  there  was  one  man  or  woman  in  all 
that  strange  new  world  who  would  meet  us  with 
a  welcome,  and  say,  'Come  and  tarry  with  us  for 
a  day.'  "  What  wonder  that  Dr.  Colly er  con- 
fesses that  they  were  "lonesome,"  and  that  his 
"own  heart  was  very  heavy"! 

Furthermore,  there  was  not  only  lonesome- 
ness,  but  anxiety,  to  trouble  them.  For,  strange 
as  it  may  now  seem,  the  question  as  to  what  kind 
of  treatment  they  would  receive  at  the  hands  of 
the  people  in  America  had  been  a  matter  for 
speculation,  and  even  for  some  little  fear, 
throughout  the  voyage.  Dr.  Collyer  tells  us  that 
he  "had  read  all  the  books  that  he  could  lay  (his) 
hands  on"  about  America,  but  wanting  to  know 
more  than  books  could  give,  he  "had  gone  before 
his  leave-taking  to  see  a  sort  of  kinsman  who  had 
been  three  times  to  the  States,  to  seek  his  for- 
tune, and  said  to  him.  Is  there  a  good  chance  for 
a  man  over  there  in  America?  Are  the  people  kind 
to  a  stranger?  No,  he  said,  there  ain't  a  good 
chance,  and  you  can  do  a  great  deal  better  here. 


106      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

*Whaa  them  Yankees,'  he  said  in  his  broad 
Yorkshire,  'is  saa  keen  and  cunning,  they'll  tak 
the  verra  teeth  ott  o'  yer  heead,  if  ye  dooant  keep 
yer  moath  shut.'  As  he  had  lost  some  half-dozen," 
continues  the  Doctor,  "I  didn't  like  to  ask  him 
if  'them  Yankees'  had  got  those,  but  the  pros- 
pect was  a  little  blue." 

All  fears,  however,  proved  groundless.  Before 
he  had  set  foot  on  American  soil,  while  he  was 
yet  waiting  on  the  ship's  deck  to  land,  Collyer 
heard  from  the  pier  a  hearty  voice  in  the  broad 
Yorkshire  dialect.  It  was  like  a  breath  of 
heather  from  the  moors,  or  the  song  of  an  upland 
thrush.  He  found  the  speaker  to  be  a  tavern- 
keeper,  who  had  come  to  the  dock  in  search  of 
guests.  Without  more  ado,  the  young  emigrant 
placed  himself  and  his  wife  in  the  charge  of  this 
man.  "I  felt  we  should  be  safe,"  says  the  Doc- 
tor, "as  I  knew  all  the  Yorkshire  ways,  and  I 
could  form  some  sort  of  judgment  perhaps  of 
these  men  who  were  bound  to  have  my  teeth." 

His  host  proved  all  that  could  be  desired — 
and  so  did  the  second  inhabitant  of  this  new 
land  whom  he  chanced  to  encounter.  On  the 
night  of  their  arrival  JNIrs.  Collyer  was  taken  ill 
and  needed  medicine.  "I  went  to  a  drug  store  on 
Broadway,"  says  the  Doctor,  "to  learn  my  first 
lesson  and  see  how  it  was  done.    I  found  the  man 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  107 

was  civil  and  indeed  friendly.  He  asked  me  if  I 
had  just  landed,  and  what  I  meant  to  do.  It 
would  have  been  very  pleasant  to  hear  so  kind 
a  man  in  England,  but  here  I  was  on  my  guard, 
and  so  I  said  to  myself,  I  shall  know  what  you 
mean  when  I  see  what  you  charge.  How  much,  I 
said,  when  the  package  was  pushed  over.  O,  you 
are  very  welcome,  the  good  fellow  answered,  keep 
your  money.  You  will  need  it.  And  then  he 
held  out  his  hand  and  said,  Come  in  again,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  you.  And  so  I  went  back  to  the 
tavern  with  my  first  lesson,  and  something  like  a 
mist  in  my  eyes,  thinking  of  the  way  in  which  the 
very  first  American  man  I  had  met  had  pulled 
my  teeth." 

Here  was  a  heartening  start  of  his  life  in  the 
new  country.  It  goes  far  toward  explaining  his 
confession  of  later  years,  "I  fell  in  love  with 
America  the  day  I  landed  and  have  never 
changed  my  mind."  Further  experience  only 
tended  to  confirm  the  favourable  first  impression, 
as  we  shall  see. 

The  thought  uppermost  in  Robert  Collyer's 
mind,  of  course,  from  the  moment  of  his  landing, 
was  that  of  finding  immediate  emploj^ment. 
"About  twenty  dollars  was  all  we  had  to  start  us 
in  this  new  world,"  says  the  Doctor,  so  that  time 
was  short  for  the  idle  enjoyment  of  sight-seeing 


108      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

or  native  hospitality.  Two  days  after  their  ar- 
rival in  New  York,  therefore,  Robert  and  his  wife 
started  for  Philadelphia,  which  had  been  the 
original  destination  in  their  minds  on  leaving 
England.  There  was  no  particular  reason  for 
this  choice,  so  far  as  we  know.  "When  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  come  to  this  new  world," 
says  the  Doctor,  "...  and  the  question  came, 
'Where  shall  I  alight  in  that  land?'  the  answer 
could  not  be  mistaken,  'In  Philadelphia.'  Why 
there  of  all  places  I  could  not  have  told  you,  but 
may  say  in  passing  that  I  was  a  staunch  Metho- 
dist then  and  believed,  as  I  do  still,  in  answers  to 
prayer  when  these  touch  some  momentous  turn- 
ing point  in  our  human  life.  'To  Philadelphia,' 
the  answer  came."  ^ — And  therefore,  when  he 
touched  these  shores,  it  was  to  Philadelphia  he 
went. 

The  joy  of  the  journey,  by  way  of  South 
Amboy  and  the  Delaware,  "the  cheapest  route," 
lingered  in  the  hearts  of  the  two  travellers  for 
many  a  long  year.  It  was  a  perfect  May  day, 
with  orchards  in  full  bloom,  new  sown  farm- 
lands smiling  in  the  sun,  and  all  the  air  alive 
with  prophecies  of  summer.     The  lovely  land- 

*In  his  old  age,  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  James  T.  Fields,  "I  decided 
that  Philadelphia  should  be  the  place,  for  I  knew  no  one  any- 
where, and  I  loved  the  meaning  of  that  word  'Philadelphia.'" 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  109 

scape  seemed  to  hold  out  its  arms  in  welcome, 
and  to  repeat  the  friendly  greeting  of  the  York- 
shire tavern-keeper  and  the  Broadway  druggist. 
It  was  therefore  with  hearts  overflowing  with 
life  and  cheer  that  they  entered  the  City  of 
Brotherly  Love,  and  made  their  way  to  an  inn, 
kept  also  by  a  Yorkshireman,  which  had  been 
recommended  to  them  by  their  New  York  host. 

A  search  of  the  pages  of  the  Philadelphia 
Ledger  the  next  morning  revealed  the  following 
advertisement:  "Wanted,  a  blacksmith.  Ap- 
ply to  No.  5  Commerce  Street."  Here  was 
manna  in  the  wilderness!  Without  a  moment's 
delay,  Robert  hastened  to  the  address  given,  ap- 
plied for  the  job,  and  got  it.  The  forge  was 
located  in  Hammond's  hammer  factory,  at  a 
little  place  called  Shoemakertown,^  seven  miles 
north  of  Philadelphia,  on  the  Tacony  Creek. 
The  work  of  making  claw  hammers  was  new,  but 
the  young  Yorkshire  blacksmith  had  years  of 
practical  experience  behind  him,  and  was  un- 
afraid. 

The  journey  to  his  new  home  and  place  of  em- 
ployment brought  fresh  evidence  of  the  friendli- 
ness of  America.  He  was  to  report  at  the  forge 
the  next  morning.  Bright  and  early,  therefore, 
he  was  plodding  along  the  Old  York  highroad 

'Now  Ogontz,  Pa. 


110      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  Shoemakertown,  in  what  was  already  a  torrid 
sun.  "I  was  tired,"  says  the  Doctor,  "and  a  lit- 
tle sad,  when  a  gentleman  passed  in  a  carriage, 
looked  at  me  a  moment,  halted  and  said,  Get  in 
and  have  a  ride.  Now  I  had  plodded  along  the 
roads  in  the  mother-land  when  the  humour  took 
me,  ever  since  I  could  remember,  and  a  great 
many  gentlemen  had  passed  me  in  carriages, 
but  in  all  my  life  not  one  of  them  had  ever  said, 
Get  in  and  have  a  ride;  and  so  this  was  some- 
thing of  a  wonder.  I  got  into  the  carriage  and 
we  fell  into  a  kindly  talk,  and  my  friend  got  to 
know  almost  as  much  about  my  life,  as  I  knew 
myself,  in  an  hour,  held  out  his  hand  when  our 
ways  parted,  after  saying  all  sorts  of  cheerful 
things  about  America — and  I  went  on  my  way 
thinking  of  what  I  had  heard  about  Americans." 
This  was  Robert  CoUyer's  "second  lesson,"  as 
he  called  it.  "The  third  lesson  was  no  great 
matter,  but  it  still  lies  in  my  heart  with  the  sweet- 
ness of  a  June  rose.  I  had  turned  down  a  lane 
near  the  end  of  my  journey  that  day,  when  all  at 
once  I  came  to  a  little  garden  foaming  over  with 
lilacs,  the  blossom  I  loved  best.  I  could  not  re- 
sist gathering  a  whole  lot  of  them  into  my  arms 
and  burying  my  face  in  them  as  I  stood  by  the 
fence  and  just  sobbing  perhaps  over  another  gar- 
den, thousands  of  miles  away,  when  I  heard  a 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  111 

step,  and  saw  a  woman  coming  out  of  the  cot- 
tage. There,  I  said  to  myself,  I  shall  hear  the 
rough  side  of  that  woman's  tongue ;  she  will  want 
to  know  what  I  am  'a-doin'  at  them  air  lilacs.' 
What  she  did  was  to  say,  in  the  cheeriest  way  im- 
aginable. Would  you  like  some  lilacs?  And 
when  I  answered,  If  you  will  give  me  one, 
please,  I  shall  be  ever  so  glad,  she  made  up  a 
bunch  as  big  as  a  broom,  and  handed  it  over  the 
fence,  with  a  pleasant  word  and  a  smile,  while 
I  said  as  I  went  down  the  lane.  Nether  mill- 
stones are  nothing  to  the  hardness  of  this  Ameri- 
can heart,  and  how  they  do  draw  one's  teeth,  to 
be  sure!" 

One  other  experience  Dr.  Collyer  always  liked 
to  link  with  these  three,  and  this  "the  noblest  and 
the  best." 

"When  I  got  work,  (my  wife)  said  she  would 
get  work  too,  and  then  we  should  the  sooner  get 
a  home  together.  So  she  took  to  sewing  by  the 
day  for  a  lady  near  by,  but  was  taken  almost  at 
once  with  a  fever  she  had  caught,  no  doubt,  on 
the  ship, — and  it  was  a  question  of  life  and 
death.  Well,  now,  the  proper  thing,  you  will 
say,  was  to  take  my  wife  to  the  hospital."  The 
woman  for  whom  she  was  working,  however — a 
Mrs.  Thomason,  wife  of  a  Presbyterian  clergy- 
man, and  a  mother  with  four  children — would 


112      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  On  the  contrary,  she 
took  Mrs.  Collyer  into  her  home,  and  nursed  her 
as  if  she  had  been  her  very  own,  until  she  was 
well.  "Then  we  said,"  continued  the  Doctor, 
"we  can  never  pay  you  for  this  loving  kindness. 
But  you  have  been  at  expense  also ;  please  let  us 
know  how  much,  and  we  will  make  it  good  just 
as  soon  as  we  can  earn  the  money.  But  they 
would  not  hear  of  it.  They  sent  us  forth  with 
blessing  and  benediction." 

"We  were  very  poor,"  says  Dr.  Collyer,  "when 
they  poured  on  our  young  lives  that  lovely  bene- 
diction."— Work  was  secured,  however,  and  the 
young  blacksmith  "went  at  it  with  a  will.  I 
worked  until  my  wife  had  to  wring  out  my 
clothes  at  noon,  for  another  stint  at  the  ham- 
mers." Hammer-making  was  a  new  craft,  as 
we  have  seen;  but  he  was  on  "piece  work,"  which 
put  him  on  his  mettle,  and  soon  he  was  mak- 
ing twice  as  much  money  from  7  a.m.  to  4  p.m. 
each  day  as  he  had  made  in  England  from  6 
A.M.  to  7  P.M.  Before  he  left  the  anvil  for 
good  and  all,  he  was  making  twelve  dozen  claw- 
hammers  a  day,  which  was  a  record  for  the  coun- 
try-side. 

As  soon  as  the  wife  had  recovered  from  the 
fever,  a  modest  home  was  found  in  Shoemaker- 
town.     This  was  exchanged  a  year  later  for  "one 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  113 

much  better,  in  a  lovely  green  lane,  away  from 
the  forge."  Here  they  remained  until  the  great 
change  nine  years  later,  in  1859.  Here  "the 
children  came,  as  I  thought  they  would,"  says  the 
Doctor;  "as  welcome  as  the  flowers  of  May,  for 
I  felt  that  in  all  human  probability  I  should 
always  be  able  to  feed  them  and  clothe  them  and 
keep  them  warm,  and  give  them  the  education 
befitting  the  children  of  a  poor  man."  Emma^ 
was  the  first  to  arrive,  on  February  11,  1851. 
The  second  child,  Agnes  Sheldmerdine,  born  in 

1853,  died  in  infancy.  Then  came  twins.  Amy 
and  Alice,  who  "were  only  a  day  old  when  they 
were  taken."  For  the  second  time  Mrs.  Collyer 
was  seriously  ill,  and  sorrow  was  heavy  upon  the 
home.  New  courage  and  hope,  however,  came 
with  the  birth  of  Harriet  Norman*  on  June  14, 
1857.  It  was  after  the  removal  to  Chicago  in 
1859,  that  the  last  two  children  were  born — 
Annie  Kennicutt  ^  on  May  12,  1860,  and  Robert 
Staples   on  January   10,   1862.     Meanwhile   in 

1854,  Samuel,  the  son  by  the  first  marriage,  was 
brought  over  from  his  grandmother  in  England 
to  his  father  in  America,  by  a  shopmate  in  the 
Shoemakertown   factory,   a   Mr.    Gallagher  by 

'  Now  Mrs.  Hosmer,  of  Chicago. 

*  Later  Mrs.  Joseph  Eastman,  died  September  23,  1903. 

•Died  February  10,  1886. 


114      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

name,  who  crossed  the  seas  in  this  year  to  get  his 
family.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Samuel's 
voyage  was  on  the  S.  S.  City  of  Glasgow,  which 
disappeared,  without  leaving  a  trace  behind,  on 
the  return  trip. 

The  country  in  which  the  new  home  was  estab- 
lished, was  one  to  win  the  heart.  It  is  true  that 
Philadelphia,  the  second  city  in  the  land,  was 
only  seven  miles  distant ;  and  Shoemakertown  it- 
self a  not  too  lovely  industrial  settlement.  It  is 
true  also  that  the  moors,  the  dales,  the  craggy 
hills  of  Yorkshire  were  all  unknown.  But  the 
flat  Pennsylvania  countryside  had  wonders  all 
its  own,  and  soon  appeared  to  the  new  settlers 
as  "the  most  beautiful  land  (they)  had  ever  laid 
eyes  on."  Walking  out  from  the  ugly  factories 
and  squatty  homes  of  the  village,  they  were  lost 
in  no  time  in  the  green  lanes,  bordered  by  lilac 
hedges  and  orchard  blooms,  which  threaded 
the  pleasant  farm-lands  in  every  direction. 
Stretches  of  meadow  and  pasture,  watered  by 
pleasant  streams,  and  broken  by  occasional 
clumps  of  trees,  interspersed  the  wide  spaces  of 
cultivated  ground.  In  the  spring,  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  wild  flowers,  or  of  the 
sodden,  upturned  soil,  and  later  with  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  new-mown  hay;  while  autumn 
brought  the  fragrance  of  gathered  harvests  and 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  115 

dropping  fruit.  Herds  of  cows  fed  quietly  in 
the  summer  heat ;  heavy  teams  of  horses  or  yokes 
of  oxen  raised  clouds  of  dust  along  the  highways ; 
and  workers  toiled  in  the  fields,  or  rested  in  the 
shade  of  spacious  and  prosperous-looking  farm- 
buildings.  Winter,  with  its  frozen  ground,  shiv- 
ering stacks  of  withered  corn-stalks,  and  drifting 
snows,  was  less  cheerful.  But  the  cutting  east 
winds  of  the  Yorkshire  moors  were  unknown, 
and  long  periods  of  rain  and  mist  a  rarity.  It  is 
doubtful  if  Robert  Collyer's  eyes  ever  rested  on 
anything  in  this  new  country  which  seemed  as 
lovely  to  him  as  the  purple  heather,  or  his  ear 
heard  music  to  compare  with  the  song  of  the 
Washburn  throstle,  or  his  feet  trod  earth  as  wel- 
come as  the  long  slopes  to  the  Wharfedale  up- 
lands. His  references  through  many  years  to 
these  familiar  features  of  the  homeland,  show 
with  what  fondness  his  heart  clung  to  what  it  had 
first  known  and  loved.  But  there  was  a  warmth, 
an  abundance,  a  serenity  about  this  smiling  coun- 
tryside which,  in  spite  of  ugly  villages  here  and 
there  like  Shoemakertown,  had  a  peculiarly  in- 
gratiating charm,  while  a  certain  virgin  fresh- 
ness, suggestive  of  unspoiled  resources,  brought 
constant  reminder  to  the  settler  from  over-seas 
that  he  had  indeed  passed  from  an  old  to  a  new 
world. 


116      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Such  a  land  brought  compensation  to  the  CoU- 
yers  for  what  they  had  left  behind;  and  glad  re- 
lief as  well  from  the  rather  sordid  and  ugly  sur- 
roundings of  Shoemakertown.  What  was  miss- 
ing was  not  so  much  the  beauty  of  the  old  coun- 
try, as  the  companionship  of  the  old  friends.  It 
is  this  which  explains,  in  all  probability,  the  early 
homesickness  of  which  Dr.  Collyer  made  confes- 
sion in  after  years.  But  this  lack  was  soon  sup- 
plied, not  so  much  perhaps  through  the  essential 
friendliness  of  the  people,  though  this  was  most 
certainly  present,  as  through  that  innate  quality 
of  personal  attraction  with  which  Robert  Coll- 
yer was  endowed  from  the  very  beginning  of  his 
days.  There  was  a  wdnsomeness  about  him 
which  was  irresistible.  One  had  but  to  look 
upon  his  open,  good-natured  countenance,  hear 
the  vibrant  ring  of  his  voice  as  it  reverberated 
from  his  massive  chest,  feel  the  warm  clasp  of 
his  tremendous  hand,  to  love  him.  Honesty 
clothed  him  as  a  garment;  goodwill  radiated 
from  his  face  as  a  glowing  light.  Wherever  he 
walked  the  ways  of  men,  they  leaped  to  meet 
him,  and  meeting,  took  him  to  their  hearts. 
"The  only  way  to  have  a  friend,"  says  Emerson 
in  his  essay  on  Friendship,  "is  to  be  one."  This 
it  is  which  explains  the  seeming  miracle  of  the 
drug  clerk  in  New  York,  the  driver  on  the  Old 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  117 

York  road,  and  the  woman  of  the  lilacs  in  Shoe- 
makertown.  And  this  it  is  which  explains  also 
the  warm  hearts  which  promptly  opened  all 
about  them  in  their  new  home.  "We  sought  no 
friends,"  says  the  Doctor  naively,  in  his  "Some 
Memories;"  "they  came  to  us  of  their  own  free 
will."  Of  course  they  did — as  naturally  as  the 
flower  turns  to  the  sun  or  the  bee  to  the  blossom. 
The  warmth  and  sweetness  of  his  soul,  reflected 
in  a  face  of  noble  beauty,  drew  all  men  unto  him, 
even  in  these  days  when  he  was  a  mere  immi- 
grant, unknown  to  acquaintanceship,  much  less 
to  fame.  Nor  should  we  forget  the  wife  who 
was  a  woman  of  infinite  charm  and  large  capacity 
of  afl*ection.  To  her  no  less  than  to  him  must 
be  rendered  accounting  for  the  doors  and  hearts 
which  opened  to  them  so  promptly.  They  were 
a  fascinating  couple,  to  know  whom  was  to  love 
and  serve. 

On  the  very  first  day  in  the  new  home,  the 
good  woman  next  door  came  in  with  a  dish  of 
stewed  tomatoes.  On  the  same  day,  an  old 
Quaker  lady,  "well  up  among  the  nineties,"  came 
hobbling  across  the  road  on  her  crutch,  to  give 
them  greeting.  Another  neighbour,  Old  Michael, 
a  representative  of  the  German  stock  which  was 
thickly  planted  in  this  particular  district,  early 
became  a  fast  friend  of  the  new  blacksmith. 


118      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

Albert  Engle,  the  store-keeper,  and  Charles  Bos- 
ler,  the  niiller,  trusted  and  loved  him.  And  so, 
little  by  little,  the  niches  left  vacant  by  absent 
friends  were  filled,  and  the  lonely  hearts  made 
happy.  When  the  two  young  voyagers  landed 
in  Xew  York,  there  was  no  friend  to  give  them 
welcome;  no  familiar  spot  to  which  they  could 
turn  for  refuge ;  no  opening,  so  far  as  they  knew, 
for  employment  and  the  establishment  of  a  home. 
Within  a  month,  all  these  were  supphed.  Amer- 
ica had  become  to  them  as  their  own  dear  land 
across  the  seas. 

It  was  in  mid-May,  1850,  that  Robert  Colly er 
went  to  work  at  the  forge  in  Hanmiond's  fac- 
tory. All  went  well  until  July,  when  '"we  had 
to  stop,  to  put  in  a  new  boiler.  I  could  not  af- 
ford to  lay  off,"  says  the  Doctor,  "I  must  have  a 
job  of  some  sort."  So  for  two  weeks  he  tossed 
hay  in  a  neighbour's  meadow.  Then,  when  the 
crop  was  ingathered,  he  sought  out  his  employer, 
!Mr.  Hammond,  and  asked  for  a  job  on  the  new 
boiler.  There  was  no  opening,  save  that  of  car- 
rying a  hod  for  the  brick-layers;  but  this  was 
eagerly  accepted.  "So  I  carried  a  hod,"  boasted 
the  Doctor,  "for  a  dollar  a  day,  to  make  ends 
meet;  and  in  doing  this  I  had  to  go  through  the 
nastiest  hole  in  the  wall  with  my  load  of  bricks 
you  ever  saw,  fuU  of  jagged  ends,  and  the  result 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  119 

was  that  on  Saturday  night  I  had  more  perfectly 
new  and  original  bumps  on  that  poor  head  of 
mine  than  j-our  phrenologists  ever  dreamed  of." 
There  was  balm,  however,  for  the  sensitive  soul, 
as  well  as  the  bruised  head,  when  at  the  end  the 
"dear  helpmeet"  took  the  tired  hod-carrier  to  her 
heart,  and  blessed  him  with  her  "Well  done." 

The  lay-off,  fortunately,  was  of  short  dura- 
tion, and  Collyer  was  soon  back  at  the  anvil. 
Then  followed  a  period  of  seven  years,  when 
work  was  steady  and  wages  good.  At  one  time, 
the  young  blacksmith  was  earning  as  much  as 
fifty  dollars  a  month,  but  such  an  income  was 
possible  only  during  the  cool  months. 

Then,  like  a  bolt  out  of  the  blue,  came  "the 
fearful  panic  of  1857,  when  ever^i;hing  came  to 
a  deadlock."  From  October  to  the  following 
March,  the  fii-es  were  out  and  the  anvil  silent. 
The  situation  in  the  little  home,  as  in  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  similar  homes  throughout  the  land, 
was  desperate.  Here  was  the  mother,  not  any 
too  well ;  three  children  clinging  to  her  knee ;  and 
savings  sadly  depleted  by  two  lay-offs,  one  "with 
a  broken  arm,  and  again  with  a  splint  of  steel 
in  my  eye,"  and  by  the  recurring  illness  "for 
weeks  together"  of  Mrs.  Collyer.  In  such  a 
plight  any  odd  job,  however  humble,  was  wel- 
come.    "I  took  to  whatever  I  could  get  to  do," 


120      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

is  the  Doctor's  word.  "I  did  not  care,  you  see, 
what  the  job  was,  so  it  was  honest  work,  because 
a  dollar  a  day  meant  independence,  while  to  fold 
your  hands  meant  beggary." 

For  awhile  he  worked  at  digging  a  well  for  a 
neighbour.  Then  he  laboured  "for  a  spell"  on  the 
turnpike.  A  gentleman  long  years  after  told 
him  that  he  had  seen  him  at  this  time  breaking 
stones ;  but  it  is  the  Doctor's  testimony  that  this, 
if  true,  passed  from  his  memory.  Such  ventures 
helped  to  keep  the  home  together,  and  the  chil- 
dren fed  and  clothed ;  but  they  would  have  failed 
in  the  end,  had  not  good  friends  who  knew  the 
worth  of  the  sturdy  Yorkshireman,  as  we  have 
seen,  come  gallantly  to  the  rescue.  "Don't 
worry,  Collyer,"  was  the  word  of  Albert  Engle, 
"come  to  my  store  for  anything  that  is  needed 
in  the  family;  it  will  be  all  right  by-and-by."  ® 
"Come  to  my  mill  for  all  the  flour  and  meal  you 

•  "Two  weeks  ago  this  very  morning,  Albert  Engle  died.  His 
son  wrote  me  at  once  that  'Father  died  this  morning  very  sud- 
denly, and  Mother  wants  to  know  if  you  won't  come  down  and 
take  the  funeral  service/ 

"I  went  to  the  old  town,  my  home  so  many  years  ago,  and  then 
and  there  I  told  the  large  gathering  present  the  story  of  my 
acquaintance  and  intimacy  for  forty-six  years  with  the  departed 
one,  and  spoke  of  him  as  the  good  husband,  the  good  father,  the 
good  citizen,  the  good  friend,  and  the  good  merchant,  and  said  to 
them  that  I  would  pledge  my  confidence  that  Albert  Engle  did  not 
possess  one  unclean  dollar  when  he  died." — R.  C,  in  an  interview, 
October  12,  1896. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  121 

need,"  said  Charles  Rosier,  "I  can  trust  you." 
And  George  Heller,  landlord,  asked  no  rent 
during  the  distressful  period.  "I  must  record 
their  names  in  my  book  of  life,"  wrote  Dr.  CoU- 
yer  in  his  autobiography;  so  I  know  that  he 
would  have  me  also  record  them  here  as  those 
who  made  good  the  ancient  promise,  "Before 
you  ask,  I  will  answer." 

Thus,  by  hard  labour  of  his  own,  and  by  the 
helping  hands  of  friends,  Collyer  "pulled 
through,  none  the  worse  for  the  panic."  By 
early  summer  the  fires  were  lighted  again;  for 
two  more  years,  his  hammer  rang  blithely  on  the 
anvil ;  and  the  home  prospered  in  its  humble  way 
as  never  before. 

Life  during  these  nine  years  at  the  forge  in 
Shoemakertown  was  very  similar,  in  all  outward 
aspects  at  least,  to  what  it  had  been  in  Ilkley. 
The  hours  of  labour  were  shorter,  the  wages 
larger,  and  the  general  standard  of  living,  there- 
fore, higher  in  normal  times  than  had  ever  been 
dreamed  of  in  the  old  country.  But  the  drama 
of  experience  was  much  the  same.  At  the  cen- 
tre, of  course,  was  the  day's  work.  ^lorning  and 
evening  brought  the  companionship  of  wife  and 
children,  friendly  intercourse  with  neighbours, 
occasional  political  or  religious  discussion  in  the 
stores  or  at  the  cross-roads.    "My  neighbours," 


122      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

he  says,  "wanted  me  to  take  out  papers  of  citi- 
zenship, but  I  told  them  I  would  wait  awhile. 
They  had  been  used  to  the  country  all  their  lives 
— I  wanted  to  study  it  for  a  time."  Often  on 
Sundays  and  holidays,  especially  in  summer, 
there  were  strolls  down  the  green  lanes,  and 
over  the  meadows.  Everything  outside  of  the 
routine  of  the  anvil,  however,  was  tempered  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  as  it  had  been  on  the 
other,  by  Robert  Collyer's  twin  passions  of  read- 
ing and  preaching. 

The  love  of  books  was  burning  as  hotly  in  his 
heart  as  ever — perhaps  more  hotly,  to  the  extent 
at  least  that  the  increased  income  made  it  possi- 
ble for  a  time  to  add  fuel  to  the  flames.  "From 
the  first,"  writes  the  Doctor,  "I  bought  books, 
and  denied  myself  beer,  because  I  could  not  af- 
ford both.  I  liked  beer,  but  I  liked  books  bet- 
ter." Before  many  months  had  passed,  how- 
ever, the  purchase  of  even  an  occasional  volume 
became  an  extravagance  which  the  good  wife, 
with  a  cautious  eye  to  the  future,  refused  to  tol- 
erate. The  expense  of  the  new  home,  the  arrival 
of  little  children  with  mouths  to  feed  and  bodies 
to  clothe,  the  support  of  the  mother^  in  Leeds 
which  Robert  shared  now  and  for  many  years  to 

'  "Father  had  no  business  to  succeed  to,  and  no  property.     Left 
Mother  and   five  of  us.  .  .  .  Dear  old  lady  living  yet.     We  all 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  123 

come  with  his  brother,  the  need  of  saving  against 
an  evil  day,  all  these  conditions  made  necessary 
the  use  of  every  penny  earned  by  the  hard  labour 
at  the  anvil.  When  illness  of  the  mother,  or  ac- 
cident to  the  father,  came  along,  the  fiscal  situa- 
tion became  serious.  And  when  there  came  un- 
employment, as  in  1850  and  1857,  there  was 
positive  disaster.  The  purchase  of  books,  even 
second-hand  ones,  under  such  circumstances,  be- 
came impossible.  Now  and  again  the  young 
blacksmith,  tempted  by  books  as  a  toper  by  beer, 
yielded  to  the  weaknesses  of  the  flesh;  and  then 
desperate  were  the  endeavours  to  conceal  his  of- 
fence from  the  watchful  mother  at  home.  He 
tells  of  one  delightful  occasion  when  he  was 
guilty  of  expending  almost  a  whole  dollar  for 
a  thick  volume  of  Littel,  which  had  proved  abso- 
lutely irresistible.  He  "durst  not"  bring  it 
home;  so  he  hid  it  carefully  away  under  a  currant 
bush  in  the  yard,  with  the  idea  of  rising  early  the 
next  morning  and  smuggling  the  damning  object 
into  the  house.  His  wiles  were  successful;  and 
it  was  some  days  before  the  wife  discovered  the 
volume  in  his  hand.  "My  dear,"  was  the  in- 
stant query,  "where  did  you  get  that  book?" 

take  care  of  her  and  hope  she  will  live  to  be  a  hundred." — R.  C. 
in  letter  (undated)  written  early  in  his  Chicago  days  to  Miss 
Alice  Baker. 


124      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

"Oh,"  replied  the  husband  softly,  and  with  a 
fine  nonchalance,  "I  have  had  this  book  some 
time  I" 

By  such  desperate  ventures  as  this  was  a 
home  library  slowly  but  surely  built  up.  In  ad- 
dition to  the  Bible  and  commentary  referred  to 
above,  Robert  Collyer  had  brought  some  sixteen 
or  eighteen  other  books  with  him  across  the  sea. 
In  the  nine  years  at  Shoemakertown,  from  1850 
to  1859,  he  reckons  that  he  spent  in  all  for  books 
not  more  than  ten  dollars.  Still,  books  were 
cheap — this  was  the  age  of  pirated  editions ;  and 
what  with  judicious  purchases  of  second-hand 
copies,  and  occasional  gifts,  the  volumes  on  the 
shelves  slowly  but  surely  grew  in  number.  By 
1859,  he  can  write  in  a  personal  letter,  "I  have 
gathered  a  good  library  in  this  land  of  cheap 
coarse  books — essayists,  poets,  history,  and  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica  (new  edition),  with 
plenty  others." 

Not  to  such  limited  resources,  however,  could 
he  be  confined.  Such  a  thirst  for  reading  as 
beset  this  man,  must  find  other  springs  of  water ; 
and,  fortunately  for  him,  they  were  at  hand.  "I 
presently  heard,"  he  writes,  "of  a  library  in  the 
small  town  of  Hatboro,  six  or  seven  miles  away, 
six  one  way  and  seven  the  other.  A  fine  old 
farmer  had  found,  a  long  while  ago,  that  this  was 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  125 

the  noblest  use  he  could  make  of  a  good  deal  of 
his  money — to  build  up  a  library  away  among 
the  rich  green  lands ;  and  so  there  it  was  waiting 
for  me,  with  its  treasure  of  good  books.  I  see 
them  again,  as  they  stand  on  the  shelves,  and 
think  I  could  walk  right  in  and  lay  my  hands  on 
those  that  won  me  most  potently,  and  cast  their 
spell  again  over  my  heart — I  may  mention  Haw- 
thorne among  them  all  as  the  author  I  found 
there  for  the  first  time  who  won  my  heart  for 
good  and  all,  as  we  may  say,  and  holds  it  still. 
Then  I  found  a  great  treasure  in  no  long  time 
in  Philadelphia,  that  I  could  no  more  exhaust 
than  you  can  exhaust  the  spring  we  have  been 
glancing  at  by  drinking,  which  dips  down 
toward  the  deepness  of  the  world.  I  was  still 
bound  fast  by  the  anvil,  for  this  was  our  living, 
but  there  was  my  life,  so  far  as  good  books  could 
make  it,  rich  for  me  and  noble,  in  the  great  li- 
brary again  seven  miles  away.  So  what  matters 
about  the  hard  day's  work  at  the  anvil,  while 
there  was  some  new  volume  to  read  when  the 
day's  work  was  done,  or  old  one  to  read  with  an 
ever  new  delight?  My  new  book  or  old  one, 
with  the  sweet,  green  lane  in  the  summer  time 
where  I  could  walk  while  the  birds  sang  their 
native  song,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  green 
things  growing  floated  on  the  soft  summer  air. 


126      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

and  the  friends  in  winter,  with  the  good  wife 
busy  about  the  room  and  the  little  ones  sleeping 
in  their  cribs — I  look  back  to  those  times  still, 
and  wonder  whether  they  were  not  the  best  I 
ever  knew.  I  was  reading  some  lines  the  other 
day,  in  an  old  English  ballad  written  three  hun- 
dred years  ago,  and  they  told  the  stoiy  of  those 
times — 

*0  for  a  booke  and  a  shadie  nook,  ejther  in  doore  or 

out, 
With   the   green   leaves    whisp'ring   overhede,    or   the 

street  cries  all  about, 
Where  I  maie  reade,  all  to  my  ease,  both  of  the  New 

and  Olde, 
For  a  right  good  Booke,  whereon  to  looke,  was  better 

to  me  than  Golde.'  " 

Was  there  ever  a  more  msatiable  reader? 
Xight  and  morning,  by  the  fireside  in  winter  and 
in  the  open  fields  in  summer,  at  the  anvil  and  in 
the  preaching,  it  wa5  always  a  book  which  was 
the  intimate  companion  and  comforter.  "In  my 
life,"  says  the  Doctor  in  another  place,  "from 
fourteen  to  the  day  (a  certain  friend)  met  me 
in  Germantown,  there  was  no  spare  moment  I 
did  not  read.  I  read  while  the  iron  was  heatmg 
in  the  fire,  while  I  ate  my  meals,  from  quitting 
work  to  bed-tune,  and  in  the  early  morning.   My 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  127 

poor  wife  often  said,  'I  cannot  get  you  to  talk  as 
other  husbands  do.  Look  up  and  let  me  hear 
your  voice.'  I  fear  I  was  a  dumb  dog;  but  it  is 
a  comfort  to  remember  I  was  never  a  mean  dog. 
But  this  was  the  substance  of  my  life  from  30 
to  about  56.''  His  oldest  son,  Samuel,  in  an 
autobiographical  statement,  says,  "One  of  my 
duties  in  those  days  (in  Shoemakertown)  was  to 
carry  his  luncheon  to  him  at  the  shop,  and  I  have 
a  distinct  recollection  of  seeing  him  many  times 
reading  a  book  while  blowing  the  bellows."  A 
Quaker  woman  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  saw 
much  of  him  these  days,  in  reminiscing  in  later 
years,  testified  that  he  was  a  tireless  reader.  "I 
can  see  him  now,"  she  said,  "with  his  somewhat 
shabby  coat,  carrying  a  book  in  his  pocket.  He 
was  always  reading.  He  kept  a  book  by  him 
constantly  while  about  his  work;  and  when  he 
went  am^where  after  his  work,  he  always  carried 
a  book.  That  was  how  he  obtained  his  knowl- 
edge." 

As  to  what  this  knowledge  was,  or  what  books 
he  read  at  this  time,  we  have  information  as 
scant,  strangely  enough,  as  that  pertaining  to  the 
former  days  in  Yorkshire.  ]Mention  of  the  ear- 
lier favourites  of  his  youthful  years — Bunyan, 
Goldsmith,  Burns  and  Shakespeare — recurs 
more  than  once.     He  now  adds  Hawthorne  to 


128      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

the  list,  as  we  have  seen.  Charlotte  Bronte  was 
first  discovered  at  this  time.  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe's  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  was  read  with  en- 
thusiasm as  soon  as  it  appeared.  The  amusing 
story  about  Littel  indicates  that  literature  of  a 
more  serious  character  had  as  strong  an  appeal 
as  pure  literature.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  in 
all  probability,  that  anything  that  was  a  book 
was  grist  to  his  mill,  with  his  inclination  running 
strongly  in  the  direction  of  the  great  masters  of 
England  and  America  who  knew  the  human 
heart,  and  revealed  its  valour,  pity  and  endless 
mystery.  Lacking  a  competent  guide,  and  him- 
self untrained  and  therefore  devoid  of  standards, 
he  undoubtedly  wandered  often  in  strange  by- 
paths, and  more  than  once  lost  his  way.  But  his 
instinct  was  sound,  he  knew  and  clung  to  his 
own,  and  in  the  course  of  years  built  up  a 
knowledge  of  biography,  fiction,  history  and 
folk-lore  which,  while  all  his  own  and  thus  to  a 
remarkable  degree  unique,  would  yet  have  put  to 
shame  the  knowledge  of  many  a  proud  student 
of  universities.  One  wonders,  with  a  feeling 
akin  to  pity,  what  Robert  Collyer  would  have 
been,  had  the  life-long  hunger  of  his  heart  for 
trained  study  been  satisfied.  One  cannot  believe 
that  this  experience  would  have  altered  those  na- 
tive qualities  of  understanding,  charm  and  hu- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  129 

man  sympathy,  which  were  the  sources  of  his 
power  all  his  days,  while  giving  back  nothing 
commensurate,  intellectually  and  spiritually,  in 
return.  And  yet  just  enough  men  have  been 
spoiled — shall  we  say  despoiled? — in  this  way,  to 
make  it  possible  for  us  to  rest  well  content  with 
what  actually  took  place.  In  the  case  of  Robert 
Collyer,  at  any  rate,  we  may  have  confidence  that 
all  things  worked  together  for  good. 

The  second  passion  which  found  dominating 
expression  in  these  years  was  preaching.  ''I 
came  here,"  says  Dr.  Collyer,  in  an  autobio- 
graphical fragment,  "resolved  to  do  two  things — 
to  work  at  the  anvil  week-days,  and  to  preach  on 
Sundays." 

In  preparation  for  this  latter  function,  he 
brought  with  him  across  the  seas  a  letter  of  com- 
mendation from  the  Methodist  brethren  in  Eng- 
land. Soon  after  his  arrival  in  Philadelphia,  he 
discovered  in  a  certain  book-seller,  Thomas 
Stokes  by  name,  a  Methodist  lay-preacher,  and 
to  him  he  immediately  presented  his  letter.  He 
was  warmly  received,  and  taken  to  a  neighbour- 
ing church  on  the  next  Sunday,  when  he  was  for- 
mally presented  to,  and  received  by,  the  minister. 
Later  on,  when  he  had  established  his  home  in 
Shoemakertown,  Collyer  and  his  wife  joined  the 
Methodist  church  near  at  hand  in  Milestown,  and 


130      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

here  again  were  given  cordial  welcome.  It  was 
only  a  matter  of  time  when  he  was  introduced  to 
the  clergyman  in  charge  of  the  ^Montgomery 
Comity  cu'cuit,  and  regTilarly  admitted  to  the 
band  of  local  preachers. 

All  endeavours,  however,  to  get  started  in  the 
actual  work  of  preaching,  met  with  failure,  for  a 
reason  which  was  as  appalling  as  it  was  unex- 
pected. At  the  veiy  first  service  which  he  had 
attended  in  Philadelphia  under  the  escort  of  the 
good  book-seller,  there  had  been  a  prayer  meet- 
ing after  the  sermon;  and  Robert  CoUyer,  in 
token  of  the  goodwill  of  his  new^  friends,  was 
asked  to  "make  a  prayer."  Xothing  loath  to  try 
his  powers  of  di^ane  petition  in  this  new  land,  he 
rose  to  his  feet  and  poured  forth  his  soul  in  famil- 
iar Yorkshire  fashion.  Then  followed  what  he 
described  in  after  years  as  "the  scare  of  a  life- 
time"; for  he  was  informed  on  his  way  home,  by 
honest  Thomas  Stokes,  that  the  meeting  had  not 
understood  "the  half  of  what  (he)  said. — I  sup- 
pose you  spoke  in  the  Yorkshire  dialect,"  contin- 
ued Stokes.  "You  will  have  to  speak  as  we  do 
here  in  America,  if  you  are  a  local  preacher." 

Here  was  a  "panic"  indeed,  for  Collyer  had 
set  his  heart,  as  we  have  seen,  upon  preaching 
among  the  bretliren  in  America  exactly  as  he  had 
done  in  England.     Xor  was  the  case  remedied 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  131 

any  when  he  went  to  be  received  by  Mr.  Taft, 
"the  chief  of  the  board  of  stew^ards  or  church 
guardians"  in  the  local  district.  "He  could  not 
understand  me,  apparently,"  writes  Dr.  Collyer 
in  an  account  of  the  incident,  "for  I  then  spoke 
the  broadest  Yorkshire  dialect,  which  is  about  as 
distant  from  the  English  language,  in  its  sound 
at  least,  as  the  Highland  dialect.  'You  want  to 
preach,  do  you?'  said  he  after  awhile.  'Well,  I 
guess  we  may  some  day  give  you  an  opportunit3\' 
But  I  saw  that  Taft  did  not  like  me.  He  thought 
it  was  suspicious  that  any  man  should  speak  such 
a  foreign  language,  and  yet  claim  that  it  was 
English.  I  saw  by  his  eye  that  I  should  not  get 
to  preach,  unless  I  took  him  unaware.  So  after 
waiting  for  a  long  time  for  an  opening  and  not 
getting  any,  and  having  my  mind  full  of  some- 
thing to  say  all  the  while,  I  finally  thought  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  when  the  weather  was  pretty 
hot,  that  I  would  go  over  to  a  little  school-house 
kind  of  church  called  Harmer  Hill,  where  Taft 
was  to  hold  forth  himself.  It  occurred  to  me 
that  he  might  want  to  be  relieved  on  that  hot  day. 
There  was  a  little  congregation  gathered,  looking 
resigned,  as  they  had  to,  because  they  were  going 
to  hear  Taft.  I  stepped  up  toward  the  altar  and 
he  looked  at  me  an  instant,  and  said :  'Would  you 
like  to  preach  here  now?'     'Yes,'  said  I,  'I  w^ould, 


182      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

very  much.'  *Go  right  on/  said  Taft.  So  I 
started  in,  and  the  desire  being  long  pent  up 
within  me,  it  came  forth  voluminously.  When  I 
sat  down  covered  with  perspiration,  Taft  said, 
'Well,  you  can  preach  whenever  you  like  now.'  " 
The  way  was  open;  and  from  this  time  on  he 
was  as  busy  a  preacher  in  Pennsylvania  as  he  had 
been  in  Yorkshire.  "I  preached  in  those  green 
lands  where  we  lived,  nine  years  almost,  unlearn- 
ing the  old  tongue  and  learning  the  new."  Every 
Sunday  he  was  off  bright  and  early  to  some  one 
of  the  four  village  churches  which  constituted  the 
particular  circuit  to  which  he  was  assigned,  and 
occasionally  he  journeyed  to  some  more  distant 
appointment  in  a  neighbouring  circuit.  Over  the 
dusty,  or  frozen,  roads  he  trudged,  with  his  Bible 
under  his  arm  and  the  word  of  God  in  his  heart — 
preached  his  sermon  to  the  little  group  of  farm- 
ers, tradesmen  and  artisans  which  greeted  him — 
and  then  trudged  home  again  in  the  late  after- 
noon or  evening  to  his  well-earned  rest.  He  was 
not  paid  even  so  much  as  to  enable  him  to  make 
good  the  wear  and  tear  on  his  shoe  leather.  In 
later  years  he  estimated  that  he  received  in  all, 
for  his  nine  years'  preaching  service,  one  almanac, 
several  pecks  of  apples,  a  heterogeneous  assort- 
ment of  household  necessaries,  "no  end  of  teas 
and  suppers,"  and  ten  dollars  in  money  which 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  133 

was  paid  to  him  for  three  sermons  to  the  Baptists 
of  the  neighbourhood.  But  there  were  rewards 
which  came  to  him  far  more  precious  than  silver 
and  gold.  Everj^where  he  went  he  found  good 
friends;  now  and  then,  as  on  the  occasion  of  his 
visit  to  Hatboro,^  six  miles  away  on  another  cir- 
cuit, he  discovered  a  library  which  was  to  him  as 
"a  spring  of  living  water";  best  of  all,  he  won  the 
inestimable  privilege  of  pouring  out  his  heart  on 
all  the  deep  things  of  the  spirit.  These  were 
sunny  days;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  he  looked  back  upon  them  through  his  later 
years  with  exceeding  joy. 

Of  the  growing  effectiveness  of  his  preaching 
in  this  period,  there  can  be  no  question.  His  nat- 
ural gift  of  speech,  the  training  of  continued  and 
earnest  practice,  his  increasing  fund  of  experi- 
ence, above  all  his  ripening  qualities  of  human 
understanding  and  sympathy,  were  conspiring  to- 
gether mightily  at  this  time  to  make  him  a  highly 
successful  preacher  of  the  word.  "He  was  a 
wonderful  speaker,"  testifies  a  contemporary,  "so 
earnest,  and  demonstrative  in  his  manner.  He 
said  things  which  made  you  feel  like  going  out 
and  doing  them  the  next  day."  There  was  a  charm 
of  personality,  a  contagion  of  good  spirits,  an 
earnestness  of  conviction,  an  unerring  instinct  of 

"  See  above,  page  124, 


134      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

common  sense,  a  homely  interest  in  the  tasks  of 
daily  living,  a  pure  and  high  vision  of  the  reality 
of  things  spiritual,  which  tended  rapidly  and 
surely  to  overcome  the  disadvantages  inevitably 
inherent  in  his  utter  lack  of  education  for  his  task. 
For  many  months,  if  not  years,  his  Yorkshire  dia- 
lect was  the  most  serious  obstacle  in  his  way.  One 
old  man  confessed  to  him  in  his  later  years  in 
Shoemakertown,  that  he  (the  hearer)  did  not  un- 
derstand him  for  a  long  time.  Persistent  en- 
deavour, however,  helped  out  by  "a  pliant  and  sen- 
sitive ear,"  enabled  him  in  course  of  time  to  catch 
the  new  tongue,  although  there  remained  in  his 
speech  certain  curious  pronunciations  and  inflec- 
tions^ and  a  kind  of  all-pervading  although  very 
slight  "burr,"  which  marked  him  to  the  end  of  his 
days  as  a  Yorkshireman.  But  he  did  not  have 
to  await  the  consummation  of  this  achievement  to 
gain  his  hearing.  Even  when  his  speech  was  least 
understandable,  he  was  a  welcome  visitor  to  the 
village  churches.  The  very  man  who  confessed 
to  not  understanding  any  of  Robert  CoUyer's  ut- 
terance in  the  beginning,  followed  up  this  confes- 
sion by  the  heartsome  comment,  "But  I  felt  good, 
so  I  always  came  to  hear  you."     The  people,  I 

'For  example,  "wuld"  for  "world,"  "windah"  for  "window," 
"Sunda"'  for  "Sunday,"  and  a  frequent  clipping  of  the  final  "g" 
in  words  ending  in  "ing." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  135 

have  no  doubt,  liked  to  look  upon  his  handsome 
face,  hear  his  full,  rich  voice,  share  his  passion  of 
inward  conviction,  meet  his  spirit  reaching  forth 
to  meet  and  conquer  theirs.  After  all,  there  is 
"a  gift  of  tongues"  which  defies  all  barriers  of 
dialect.  There  is  a  spiritual  language  which 
transcends  all  need  of  exact  translation.  "Spirit 
wdth  spirit  can  meet"  even  in  the  silences,  and 
how  much  more  when  the  full  heart,  in  language 
known  or  unknown,  pours  itself  forth!  The 
farmers  of  the  Pennsylvania  country-side,  like 
the  yeomen  of  the  Yorkshire  moorlands,  loved 
this  man  of  the  full  speech  and  ardent  heart.  The 
old  man  was  right — it  "felt  good"  just  to  hear 
him,  whether  they  understood  his  every  word  or 
not — and  therefore  they  "heard  him  gladly." 

A  delightful  picture  of  the  blacksmith  preacher 
of  these  days  has  been  left  us  by  a  contemporary 
observer.  "I  was  about  thirteen  years  old  at 
this  time,"  his  account  begins,  "and  my  father, 
who  was  a  Methodist  minister,  frequently 
mounted  me  on  an  old  white  horse  to  ride  over  to 
the  factory  and  get  Brother  Collyer  to  preach 
on  the  following  Sunday.  I  would  probably 
have  supposed  Collyer  to  be  of  the  usual  run  of 
what  are  called  local  or  secular  preachers  but  for 
the  fact  that  a  manufacturer's  son  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, who  had  just  come  out  of  Dickinson 


136      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

College,  told  me  confidentially  that  Collyer  was 
a  remarkable  man,  and  the  only  man  he  cared  to 
hear  preach  in  the  Methodist  pulpit.  I  recollect 
that  the  last  day  I  went  over  to  get  Mr.  Collyer  I 
arrived  on  the  ancient  white  horse  at  the  dinner 
hour,  when  he  was  lying  down  on  the  grass  with 
thirty  or  forty  other  workmen,  all  with  their  din- 
ner-kettles underneath  them,  and  he  had  a  big 
stake  down  in  the  grass  from  which  he  read  while 
he  took  his  meal.  His  strong  English  face,  with 
a  smile  upon  it,  welcomed  me,  and  he  always  ac- 
cepted the  preaching  invitations,  perhaps  as  an 
opportunity  to  keep  his  hand  in.  In  his  preach- 
ing he  did  not  shout,  nor  roar,  nor  hold  the  people 
over  red-hot  stoves,  and  tell  them  that  in  seven 
minutes  by  the  watch,  unless  they  experienced  a 
change  of  heart,  they  would  be  no  better  than 
so  much  roast  pork.  .  .  .  He  preached  with  feel- 
ing, but  traced  human  nature  along  through  its 
pains  and  daily  troubles,  and  the  stopping  places 
of  relief  and  inward  exultation  as  doubt  after 
doubt  disappeared  and  man  became  reconciled  to 
life  and  grief.  The  boys  liked  this  preaching, 
without  exactly  understanding  it.  It  appeared 
to  be  nearly  as  good  as  reading  some  of  the  Sun- 
day school  books,  which  referred  to  the  ordinary 
lives  of  boys  and  their  errors  and  faults,  and  how 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  137 

they  surmounted  them  and  felt  a  little  inward 
nobility  on  account  of  it." 

Thus  did  Robert  Collyer  pass  these  first  years 
of  his  American  life — at  the  anvil  making  claw- 
hammers,  in  the  pulpit  bringing  souls  to  God,  in 
the  home  reading  books,  caring  for  his  children, 
and  helping  the  good  wife.  It  was  a  happy 
period  for  him,  as  we  have  seen.  On  occasion 
times  were  hard,  and  his  pride  and  patience  were 
tested  to  the  breaking-point.  Now  and  then 
there  was  sorrow  in  the  loss  of  children,  and  anxi- 
ety in  the  illness  of  the  mother.  Sometimes 
there  came  the  call  from  the  old  home  across  the 
seas,  and  his  heart  in  an  instant  was  desolation. 
The  merest  chance  would  shake  him  to  the  very 
depths  of  his  being,  so  sensitive  he  was,  and  fond. 
Thus  he  tells  us  in  one  place  how  he  saw  a  copy 
of  Charlotte  Bronte's  "Jane  Eyre"  "on  a  book- 
stall and  bought  it  for  twenty-five  cents."  This 
was  comparatively  soon  after  his  arrival  in  this 
country.  "I  began  at  once  to  read  it,"  he  says, 
"and  when  I  got  fairly  into  it,  I  felt  as  if  I  was 
borne  away  on  invisible  wings  right  into  the  old 
nest.  I  saw  the  hills  and  moors  again,  standing 
out  against  the  northern  skies,  heard  the  old 
tongue  again,  and  was  folded  back  into  the  old 
life,  could  hear  the  bells  ringing  in  the  steeples 
and   the   voices   singing   in  the   churches,    and 


138      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

watch  the  light  play  on  the  faces  at  the  old  fire- 
side. I  knew  every  spot  when  I  came  to  them 
one  by  one,  as  I  knew  the  cottage  where  my 
mother  was  sitting  thinking  about  her  boy  who 
had  wandered  away  and  was  lost  to  her  loving 
old  heart  and  eyes  in  this  strange  new  world 
over  the  sea."  What  v,onder  that,  "a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land,"  he  became  "lonely  and  a  lit- 
tle homesick" — that  he  "wanted  to  see  the  hills 
again  and  the  moors,  and  to  be  folded  back  in 
the  old  life  as  a  mother  folds  her  child." 

It  was  a  complete  uprooting  which  had  taken 
place.  Not  all  at  once  could  the  plant  take  hold 
of  the  strange  new  soil,  or  all  periods  of  drooping 
be  avoided.  But  the  plant  was  hardy,  and  the 
soil  good;  so  that  the  roots  soon  held  even 
against  the  blasts  of  storm  and  the  leaves  flour- 
ished even  in  the  hours  of  drought.  In  present 
reality  and  future  prospect,  in  material  prosper- 
ity and  spiritual  contentment,  in  what  he  was 
finding  for  himself  and  preparing  for  his  chil- 
dren, the  migration  over  seas  had  justified  itself. 
Not  once  did  he  have  reason  for  regret.  "My  wife 
and  I,"  he  says,  "never  saw  the  day  when  we 
rued  our  setting  out  on  our  great  adventure.  No 
matter  what  hard  times  we  had  to  face  and  fight 
for  a  good  nine  years  before  we  could  feel  sure 
we  had  the  ball  at  our  foot,  it  all  came  true,  the 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  139 

good  dream  about  the  children,  the  plenty,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it."  The  realisation  of  the  dream  was 
not  easy.  They  had  to  "win  not  bread  alone,  but 
character  and  standing."  But  they  put  "a  stout 
heart  to  the  stey  brae,"  and  did  it! 


140      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


CHAPTER  VI 

FROM  THE  ANVIL  TO  THE  PULPIT 

1858-1859 

"One  memory  is  still  clear,  of  the  time  when  I 
quite  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  the  old  fellowship 
and  find  a  home,  if  I  could,  in  some  other  church, 
if  there  was  one  where  I  could  be  free  to  speak  the 
truth  as  it  should  be  given  me  to  speak,  without 
fear." — R.  C.  in  "Some  Memories,"  page  75. 

Robert  Collyer's  life  was  marked  by  two 
great  spiritual  crises,  each  one  of  which  induced 
momentous  change  in  the  character  and  direction 
of  his  activities.  The  first,  as  we  have  seen,  was 
his  conversion  to  Methodism;  this  was  sudden, 
almost  cataclysmic,  in  its  nature,  was  the  result 
of  profound  emotional  shock,  and  led  in  due  sea- 
son to  the  initial  discovery  and  use  of  his  genius 
as  a  preacher.  The  second,  his  conversion  to 
Unitarianism,  which  we  are  now  about  to  con- 
sider, was  a  result  of  slow  development,  fostered 
step  by  step  by  study,  thought  and  moral  quick- 
ening, and  was  the  immediate  occasion  of  his  re- 
moval for  good  and  all  from  the  anvil  to  the  pul- 
pit.   As  witnessed  at  the  time,  each  crisis  was  an 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  141 

isolated  phenomenon,  independent  of  everything 
save  the  outward  happenings  and  inward  experi- 
ences which  accompanied  it.  As  surveyed  from 
the  far  perspective  of  later  years,  each  crisis  is 
seen  to  be  the  accurate  expression  of  a  single  soul 
in  process  of  self -discovery ;  and  both  together, 
successive  and  related  stages  in  the  fulfilment  of 
a  destiny  forecasted  in  possibility,  if  not  deter- 
mined in  actual  certainty,  from  the  beginning. 
What  was  "the  blade"  in  the  Ilkley  smithy  lad, 
became  "the  ear"  in  the  ardent  Wesleyan 
preacher  who  tramped  the  Yorkshire  moors  and 
the  Pennsylvania  farm-lands,  and  then  at  last 
"the  full  corn  in  the  ear"  in  the  liberal  missionary 
who  in  1859  laid  down  his  hammer  and  rolled  up 
his  leathern  apron  for  the  last  time,  and,  depart- 
ing in  true  apostolic  fashion  for  the  West,  en- 
tered at  last  upon  the  full  tide  of  his  career. 

A  contemporary  account  of  this  all-important 
experience  in  his  life  is  left  us  by  Dr.  Collyer  in 
a  long  letter,  written  from  Chicago,  on  July  22, 
1859,  to  riesher  Bland,  the  Methodist  preacher 
whose  sermon  on  a  certain  night  worked  the  mira- 
cle of  conversion  in  his  soul.^  This  letter,^  in  its 
opening  portions,  is  as  follows: 

*  See  above,  page  81. 

'  The  second,  in  an  intimate  correspondence  which  lasted  without 
interruption  for  over  forty  years. 


142      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

''Dear  Brother  Bland: 

"Your  welcome  letter  reached  me  to-day.  How  glad 
it  made  me  to  hear  your  voice  breaking  through  the 
silence  of  almost  ten  3^ears,  and  to  hear  that  it  still 
retained  its  old  cheerful  tones.  God  has  surely  guided 
you  by  his  counsel.  I  thought  many  a  time  as  I  lis- 
tened to  the  poor  things  miscalled  sermons  our  preach- 
ers used  to  inflict  upon  us  in  Pennsylvania,  what  a  pity 
you  were  not  here,  what  a  power  you  might  be.  It  is 
a  simple  question  of  time  when  you  shall  take  any  pulpit 
in  the  Canada  Conference.  You  are  surely  in  the  way 
of  the  divine  providence,  if  you  have  followed  and 
preached  the  best  and  ultimate  result  of  your  thought 
and  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in  you. 

"Now  I  shall  make  you  sorrow  over  me  even  while 
I  rejoice  over  you,  because  you  are  not  prepared  to 
hear  that  I  am  not  a  Methodist  any  longer,  but  as  near 
as  may  be  'Unitarian.'  The  change  was  very  long 
coming.  I  never  sought  it,  never  feared  it.  Rather  it 
was  the  necessary  result  of  my  thought  of  God  and 
man  than  any  book  or  man  that  helped  me  to  it. 

"I  settled  about  seven  miles  from  Philadelphia  within 
six  weeks  of  the  time  I  last  saw  you  and  went  to  work  at 
my  anvil — Mr.  Murray  I  remember  gave  me  a  good 
certificate,  so  I  began  to  preach  at  once.  Men  said, 
and  say  yet  (what  has  never  spoiled  me)  that  I  was 
a  remarkable  preacher.  I  took  about  the  same  place 
on  the  circuit  you  took  at  Addingham.  It  pleased  me 
to  see  how  the  men  of  highest  culture  were  my  fastest 
friends. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  143 

"I  soon  began  to  see  that  I  was  in  a  new  world  where 
a  totally  new  religion  was  being  evolved — a  religion 
which  must  uphold  a  system  of  caste  as  marked  as  that 
of  Hindustan.  No  coloured  man  was  ever  allowed  at 
the  sacrament  until  all  else  were  served.  No  child,  col- 
oured ever  so  little,  ever  sat  on  the  same  seat  in  Sun- 
day school,  nor  grown  person  in  church.  Silence  in  the 
pulpit  for  six  years.  No  prayer  ever  uttered  on  behalf 
of  the  slave.  A  general  plea  that  they  were  better 
enslaved,  and  a  very  marked  coldness  to  all  on  the  side 
of  human  freedom.  I  took  the  other  side  at  once,  but 
made  little  progress.  At  last,  I  resigned  Nov.,  1856. 
No,  said  the  brethren,  you  must  preach,  we  give  you  full 
freedom.  After  that  I  preached  anti-slavery,  lectured, 
discussed,  took  all  times  to  help  the  great  cause.  I 
looked  for  some  who  were  on  the  Lord's  side  and  the 
slaves.  There  was  Dr.  Furness,  33  years  Pastor  of 
the  Unitarian  church  in  Philadelphia,  an  author, 
scholar,  and  noble  man.  He  had  the  only  real  anti- 
slavery  pulpit  in  the  city.  I  was  proud  when  he  in- 
vited me  yet  a  Methodist  to  preach  for  him.  There  was 
Lucretia  Mott,  a  grand-hearted  Quaker  preacher.  I 
held  meetings  with  her.  E.  M.  Davis,  a  Philadelphia 
merchant,  outlawed  for  his  devotion  to  the  slave — I  was 
proud  to  be  his  dearest  friend,  to  be  worthy  of  him.  All 
these  I  met,  heard  their  thought,  above  all  saw  their 
beautiful  lives,  so  full  of  Christlikeness  to  me.  They 
never  tried  to  make  me  other  than  I  was — constantly 
said  that  to  be  a  good  Methodist  was  so  long  as  it  was 
possible  the  best  thing  I  could  be. 


144      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

"How  I  got  out  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  think  my  first 
real  puzzle  was  Eternal  Punishment.  Then  Total  De- 
pravity, Original  Sin  and  the  rest  all  went.  I  believe 
I  rather  tried  to  hang  on  to  some  of  them,  but  they 
went  at  last.  But  before  I  was  sure  of  that,  I  was  sum- 
moned before  Conference  to  answer  the  charge  of  be- 
ing in  the  company  of  infidels,  preaching  for  them  and 
lecturing  with  them.  I  said  boldly  that  I  thought  now 
at  last  the  church  was  rather  infidel  and  they  Christian 
— that  as  to  the  heart  of  practical  religion,  it  seemed  in 
their  keeping.  I  also  told  them  I  could  no  longer 
preach  Eternal  Hell,  or  Total  Depravity,  or  anything 
that  did  not  meet  and  satisfy  my  sense  of  God  and  his 
truth.  So  at  last  in  much  sorrow  we  parted,  for  I  had 
many  warm  friends,  and  there  was  much  weeping.  But 
I  had  heard  the  voice  saying,  'Arise,  depart,  for  this  is 
not  your  rest,'  and  I  must  go."  .  .  . 

This  letter  embodies  in  outline  a  complete 
statement  of  all  that  took  place  in  this  second 
great  period  of  crisis  and  change.  In  order  that 
it  may  be  understood,  however,  in  its  many  out- 
ward and  inward  phases,  it  must  be  supplemented 
by  a  somewhat  detailed  narrative  of  events,  and 
an  attempt  at  some  kind  of  interpretation. 

Robert  Collyer's  conversion  to  Methodism  in 
1848  marked  the  beginning,  as  we  have  seen,  of 
his  personal  religious  experience.  What  this 
came  to  mean  to  him  in  memory  at  least,  is  clearly 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  145 

indicated  in  a  passage  in  the  brief  and  otherwise 
unimportant  letter,  written  from  Chicago  under 
date  of  July  8,  1859,  which  opens  the  Flesher 
Band  correspondence.  *'I  have  never  forgotten 
you,''  he  writes,  "and  never  shall.  You  were  the 
means  under  our  Father  of  helping  me  to  the 
spiritual  life." 

The  impulse  which  moved  him  at  this  critical 
moment  in  his  career  was  predominantly  emo- 
tional. It  had  its  springs  in  those  deep  wells  of 
sentiment  which  flowed  so  fully  and  so  purely 
through  all  his  days;  it  found  its  occasion  in  the 
harrowing  grief  which  followed  upon  the  sudden 
death  of  his  young  wife ;  and  it  sought  its  expres- 
sion in  the  fervent  preaching  which  touched  so 
magically  the  hearts  of  the  Yorkshire  yeomen. 
So  far  as  we  can  see,  this  momentous  transforma- 
tion of  his  inward  life  was  accompanied  by  no 
intellectual  changes  of  any  kind,  save  as  theologi- 
cal issues  assumed  a  reflected  importance  from 
the  fresh  reality  of  his  spiritual  experience.  It  is 
doubtful,  indeed,  if  he  had  ever  given  attention, 
or  attached  importance,  to  the  dogmas  ex- 
pounded in  the  Independent  chapel  at  Blubber- 
houses  or  in  the  parish  churches  at  Fewston  and 
Ilkley.  His  interest  lay  as  little  in  this  direction 
in  his  youth  as  in  his  later  years  of  full  religious 
activity;  and  he  probably  accepted  the  creeds, 


146      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

as  he  did  the  habit  of  church-going,  without 
thought.  That  he  cared  enough,  or  knew  enough, 
about  theological  distinctions  to  be  swayed  in  his 
conversion  by  the  differences  between  the  charac- 
teristic tenets  of  Anglicanism  and  Methodism,  or 
even  to  compare  and  note  these  diif erences  after 
his  conversion  was  consummated,  is  altogether 
out  of  the  question.  His  experience  in  the  little 
Methodist  chapel  had  its  beginning  not  in  the 
dubitations  of  an  inquiring  mind,  but  in  the  de- 
spair of  a  broken  heart.  It  found  its  end  not  in 
the  solution  of  intellectual  problems,  but  in  the 
satisfaction  of  spiritual  needs.  This  experience 
was  a  discoveiy  of  God  and  of  his  own  soul.  It 
was  first  and  last  a  great  emotional  upheaval, 
ending  in  the  creation  of  a  new  world  and  the 
opening  of  a  new  life.  If  this  rebirth  were  neces- 
sarily accompanied  by  the  acceptance  of  certain 
dogmas  of  the  faith,  well  and  good !  They  must 
be  true,  as  the  theological  expression  of  an  ex- 
perience found  to  be  so  real!  The  record  seems 
to  show  that  Robert  Collyer  was  a  dutiful  pupil 
in  Master  Delves's  class — which  undoubtedly 
means  that  he  accepted  without  questions  the  doc- 
trinal lessons  which  were  taught  him. 

At  this  very  moment,  however,  when  emotion 
was  playing  so  predominant  a  part  in  the  mould- 
ing of  his  life,  there  was  present  another  force, 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  147 

undeveloped  as  yet  because  of  lack  of  oppor- 
tunity and  training,  but  potent  none  the  less. 
Robert  Collyer's  nature  was  not  all  sentiment  by 
any  means.  Almost  as  strong  within  him  were  the 
faculties  of  reason.  The  springs  whence  flowed 
the  abundant  streams  of  poesy  and  love,  were 
planted  amid  the  granite-rocks  of  intellect  and 
will.  His  was  a  brain,  in  other  words,  which 
matched  in  eagerness  and  strength,  the  grace,  ten- 
derness and  compassion  of  his  heart.  And  just 
as  the  latter  moved  him  to  instinctive  response  to 
the  beauty  of  nature  and  the  goodness  of  human- 
kind, so  the  former  prompted  his  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge, and  later,  an  independent  and  courageous 
quest  for  truth.  His  entrance  into  Methodism 
was  the  beginning  for  this  man  not  only  of  the 
spiritual  but  of  the  rational  life.  One  observer 
was  "canny"  enough  to  note  this  fact,  even  when 
it  was  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  the  convert  him- 
self. This  was  the  shoemaker  who  heard  the 
"grand  effort"  at  the  Ilkley  church,  and  com- 
mented the  next  morning  that  Collyer  would 
never  make  a  preacher,  for  the  Methodists  at 
least,  since  he  wanted  to  reason  things  out  over- 
much.^ "I  might  recite  all  the  reasons  why  the 
old  mother  turned  me  adrift,"  wrote  the  Doctor 
in  a  late  autobiographical  fragment,  "but  it  is  a 

'  See  above,  page  91. 


148      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

long  story  for  a  man  to  tell  who  has  grown  garru- 
lous with  the  years — and  one  little  incident  (that 
of  the  shoemaker)  touches  the  marrow  of  the  mat- 
ter." 

This  touches  the  marrow,  indeed!  From  the 
beginning  of  his  experience  of  religion,  Robert 
Collyer  had  his  reason,  as  well  as  his  heart,  at 
work.  * 'Bishop  Butler,"  he  writes  in  an  auto- 
biographical lecture,  "says  that  reason  is  the  only 
faculty  we  have  to  judge  concerning  anything 
even  of  revelation  itself,  and  John  Locke,  'He 
that  takes  away  reason  to  make  way  for  revela- 
tion puts  out  the  light  of  both.'  (In  this  spirit) 
I  must  give  a  reason  for  the  hope  that  was  in  me." 
Such  was  the  nature  of  this  new-born  Methodist. 
The  work  of  preaching,  taken  up  so  soon  after  his 
conversion,  must  have  been  a  mighty  stimulus  to 
speculation.  And  his  reading,  which  took  him 
without  warning  or  regard  into  every  field  of 
literature,  theological  and  philosophical  among 
the  rest,  must  have  offered  many  a  challenge  and 
raised  up  many  a  question.  During  the  short 
period  of  his  preaching  in  England,  there  was 
not  a  suspicion  of  trouble,  so  far  as  we  know,  out- 
side the  foreboding  word  of  the  shrewd  old  shoe- 
maker. But  he  could  not  have  been  long  in 
America  before  the  problem  of  his  faith  became 
insistent. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  149 

The  "first  real  puzzle,"  as  Dr.  Collyer  tells  us 
in  his  letter  to  Flesher  Bland,  was  the  question  of 
eternal  punishment.  That  his  heresies  should 
begin  at  this  point  is  only  natural,  as  this  doctrine 
of  damnation  touches  our  moral  sensibilities  quite 
as  nearly  as  it  does  our  intellect.  His  heart  was 
again  anticipating  his  brain.  Furthermore,  it 
was  just  here  that  his  early  religious  training,  so 
far  as  it  made  any  impression  at  all,  had  touched 
him.  "I  began  early,"  he  says,  "to  feel  the  over- 
soul  of  the  other  life.  I  do  not  remember  when 
I  did  not  realise  dimly  the  sorrow  and  pain  of 
the  great  mystery,  but  nothing  early  of  its  joy. 
I  would  brood  over  death  when  a  young  compan- 
ion was  taken,  so  that  I  think  I  must  now  and 
then  have  been  nearly  insane.  And  there  was  no 
help  for  me  in  the  meetings.  All  the  help  I  had 
was  in  the  sweet  unconscious  heaven  of  the  home, 
where  my  father  took  no  stock  in  hell.  The 
Methodists  then  were  among  us,  and  they  gave 
us  hell  hot  and  lurid.  We  attended  an  Independ- 
ent meeting-house,  but  they  gave  it  us  cold  and 
literal.  And  so  between  them  I  saw  a  great  deal 
of  the  nether  and  very  little  of  the  upper  mys- 
tery." 

With  this  scar  upon  his  soul,  it  was  inevitable 
that  his  faith  should  first  become  sensitive  at  this 
point,  especially  in  view  of  the  extreme  emphasis 


150      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

laid  by  the  IMethodists  of  the  time  upon  this  par- 
ticular doctrine.  The  trouble  once  begun,  how- 
ever, could  not  stop  here.  The  question  of  eter- 
'nal  punishment  carried  him  straight  back  to  the 
question  of  God — His  wisdom.  His  powxr,  His 
love.  It  involved  as  well  fundamental  questions 
regarding  man — his  origin,  his  fall,  his  title  to  for- 
giveness. The  Scriptures  next  came  up  for  scru- 
tiny, for  did  not  the  Bible  clearly  teach  the  dam- 
nation of  the  wicked,  and  if  so,  must  not  this  doc- 
trine, however  ugly,  be  accepted?  Thus  were  a 
hundred  questions  raised  up  by  the  one.  Once 
started,  there  was  no  stopping  the  contagion  of 
his  doubts.  In  spite  of  the  most  conscientious 
endeavour  to  retain  at  least  some  remnant  of  the 
ancient  and  much-loved  faith  to  clothe  his  naked- 
ness, it  "all  went  at  last,"  as  he  has  said. 

So  far  as  we  can  make  out,  this^great  change 
was  almost  exclusively  an  inward  process.  "It 
was  my  thought  of  God  and  man,"  says  Dr. 
Collyer,  "(rather)  than  any  book  or  man  that 
helped  me  to  it."  This  is  rather  a  remarkable 
fact,  in  view  of  the  theological  radicalism  which 
was  acting  at  the  very  time  of  his  arrival  in  Amer- 
ica as  the  leaven  of  the  new  intellectual  life  of 
the  country,  and  his  own  exceptional  openness 
to  literary  influences  of  this  kind.  William 
Ellery  Channing  had  done  his  great  work  for 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  151 

liberalism,  and  died,  a  full  eight  years  before  Rob- 
ert CoUyer  set  foot  on  the  Battery  in  New  York. 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  had  delivered  his  Divin- 
ity School  Address  twelve  years  before  this  date, 
and  was  just  now  mounting  to  his  serene  position 
as  the  teacher  and  exemplar  through  many  years 
of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit.  Theodore 
Parker,  doughty  champion  of  free  religion,  had 
delivered  his  epoch-making  South  Boston  Sermon 
as  early  as  1841,  fought  his  good  fight  with  the 
Boston  Association  in  1844,  and  now,  in  the  '50s, 
was  in  the  floodtide  of  his  great  ministry  in  the 
Boston  Music  Hall.  Transcendentalism  was  be- 
come a  full-fledged  movement  for  intellectual 
emancipation,  moral  quickening,  and  social  re- 
form. Universalism  was  proving  a  mighty  force 
under  the  inspired  leadership  of  Hosea  Ballou. 
Unitarianism  had  weathered  the  first  rough 
storms  of  outward  attack  and  inward  dissension, 
and  was  now  sailing  full  and  free  upon  a  far- 
flung  course  of  spiritual  adventure.  And  as  if 
all  this  were  not  enough,  a  seed  of  English  Uni- 
tarianism had  been  cast  into  the  soil  of  this  very 
region  where  Robert  Collyer  was  now  living,  in 
the  person  of  Joseph  Priestley,  who  founded  his 
Northumberland  church  in  1794  and  his  Philadel- 
phia church  in  1796,  as  evidences  of  his  own  free 


152      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

faith  and  as  anticipations  of  the  native  American 
revolt  against  Christian  Orthodoxy. 

Such  were  some  of  the  potent  influences  of  the 
time.  But  so  far  as  we  can  see,  they  met  the 
Yorkshire  Methodist  not  at  all,  or,  if  so,  left 
little  or  no  impression.  One  searches  vainly  in 
contemporary  records  or  later  reminiscences  for 
mention  of  Channing,  Parker,  Emerson,  or  their 
confreres.  The  soil  was  perhaps  unpropitious 
for  the  growing  of  their  seed.  In  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Shoemakertown  was  a  mingling  of  scep- 
tical Quakerism  with  the  various  old  orthodoxies, 
of  which  the  Baptist  and  the  Methodist  were  the 
chief,  which  gave  little  opportunity  for  the  root- 
ing and  spreading  of  the  Transcendental  gospel. 
And  yet  this  very  gospel  had  long  since  been 
firmly  planted  in  Philadelphia,  only  a  few  miles 
away;  and  its  books  and  pamphlets  were  every- 
where. No — the  secret  here  was  the  sanctity  of 
Collyer's  own  inner  life.  He  was  thinking  his 
own  thoughts,  working  away  at  his  own  problems, 
testing  his  standards  for  himself.  The  harvest 
at  the  end  was  of  his  own  sowing  and  his  own 
reaping. 

And  yet  it  was  impossible  to  shut  out  external 
influences  altogether.  Now  and  again  he  would 
hear  some  word  or  read  some  book  which  would 
startle  him,  like  a  lightning  flash,  and  shake  him 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  153 

with  the  threat  of  storm  and  earthquake.  Thus 
he  tells  us  m  "Some  Memories"  of  the  shock 
which  came  to  him  when  he  heard  for  the  first 
time  of  the  evolution  heresies  about  the  origin  of 
species  and  the  descent  of  man.  It  was  at  a  meet- 
ing of  the  local  lyceum,  which  had  been  organised 
by  the  mechanics  and  the  farmers  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood for  the  discussion  of  political,  social  and 
literary  subjects,  that  this  experience  took  place. 
One  evening  "a  gentleman  from  the  city"  sub- 
mitted and  himself  debated  the  evolution  hy- 
pothesis ;  and,  as  he  was  a  thoroughgoing  radical, 
this  man  denounced  and  rejected  in  his  speech 
the  doctrines  of  "the  creation  of  this  world  in  six 
days,  the  story  of  the  making  of  man,  and  the 
woman  from  his  rib,  and  the  fall  and  what  fol- 
lowed." He  declared  that  these  things  were 
myths,  poems,  legends — that,  as  a  matter  of  scien- 
tific fact,  man  had  not  fallen,  but  had  steadily 
risen  from  lower  and  much  less  perfect  forms  of 
life.  This  episode  took  place  of  course  some  years 
before  the  publication  of  Darwin's  epoch-making 
book;  and  yet  must  have  occurred  some  years 
after  Collyer's  arrival  in  this  country,  and  thus 
comparatively  late  in  the  period  of  the  growing 
disintegration  of  his  faith.  It  may  have  followed 
some  little  time  after  the  appearance  of  Herbert 
Spencer's  famous  essay  on  "The  Development 


154      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Hypothesis,"  published  in  1852;  or  more  likely 
of  Spencer's  "Principles  of  Psychology,"  pub- 
lished in  1855.  It  is  still  more  probable  that  it 
was  a  reflection  of  the  popular  discussion  of  the 
general  question  which  had  been  started  by  the 
publication  of  "The  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  His- 
tory of  Creation,"  in  1844.  In  any  case  it  pre- 
sented a  gospel  which  was  new  to  Hobert  Collyer 
as  to  his  associates  in  the  lyceum;  and  he  con- 
fesses that  he  "was  amazed,"  and  "tried  to  frame 
an  answer."  The  doctrine  was  altogether  the 
most  frightful  heresy  that  he  had  ever  heard.  To 
this  extent  at  least  was  he  still  firm  in  the  faith 
once  delivered  to  the  saints!  But  in  spite  of  his 
instinctive  rejection  of  the  new  idea,  we  may  be 
sure  that  it  was  not  forgotten,  and  had  its  part, 
however  small,  in  the  final  result. 

Another  episode,  which  must  have  occurred 
considerably  later,  is  similarly  impressive.  An 
extended  revival  was  going  on  at  a  certain  time 
in  the  home  church.  Although  not  in  sympathy 
with  the  movement,  Collyer  attended  some  of  the 
meetings,  as  a  matter  of  old  habit,  perhaps,  as 
much  as  anything  else.  On  one  of  the  nights 
when  he  was  present,  the  preacher  launched  out 
on  the  doctrine  of  eternal  punishment  in  hell. 
"If  you  could  hold  your  hand,"  he  said,  "in  the 
flame  of  this  lamp  but  a  few  moments,  can  you 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  155 

imagine  the  agony  of  such  a  burning?  But  this  is 
no  more  than  a  faint  and  poor  intimation  of  the 
eternal  burning  in  the  fires  of  hell  which  awaits 
you  if  you  do  not  repent — the  burning  not  for  a 
few  moments,  but  forevermore — and  some  sinner 
now  in  this  church  may  be  there  before  to-morrow 
morning."  All  the  doubts  that  Robert  Collyer 
had  ever  felt  about  this  atrocious  doctrine  now 
came  rushing  over  his  heart  in  one  great  tide  of 
revulsion.  His  whole  soul  cried  out  against  it. 
And  yet,  "the  old  minister  uttered  a  loud  Amen, 
and  the  brethren  seemed  to  be  pleased  with  the 
discourse.  I  left  the  church  almost  instantly," 
says  the  Doctor.  "It  was  the  sharp  turning-point 
in  my  w^ay  as  it  seems  to  me  now." 

Such  were  some  of  the  happenings  which 
stirred  and  shook  him.  These  were  really  unim- 
portant, however,  as  compared  with  two  fresh 
and  pure  streams  of  personal  influence  which  now 
came  from  the  outer  world  to  water  the  inward 
garden  of  his  planting,  and  to  bring  to  him  the 
tides  of  contemporary  religious  liberalism  in  its 
best  estate.  Neither  of  these  two  influences,  as 
we  have  seen,  either  started  or  determined  the 
change  within  him;  but  both  of  them  served  to 
quicken  and  at  last  direct  it.  To  the  one,  Lu- 
cretia  JNIott,  Robert  Collyer  owed  the  discovery 
of  the  meaning  of  his  heresies,  and  strength  and 


156      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

comfort  in  the  hour  of  great  loneliness.  To  the 
other,  Dr.  William  Henry  Furness,  he  owed 
guidance  when  he  was  lost,  a  new  home  when  the 
old  was  gone,  and  the  fatherly  counsel  of  a  half- 
century  of  friendship.  To  both,  he  paid  the  un- 
stinted love  of  a  loyal  and  grateful  heart,  and  to 
the  end  of  his  days  found  the  debt  still  undis- 
charged. 

Lucretia  Mott,  Hicksite  Quaker,  Garrisonian 
Abolitionist,  Transcendentalist,  prophetess,  seer, 
saint,  was  bom  "on  the  third  day  of  the  new  year, 
1793,"  on  the  island  of  Nantucket,  "of  the  clean- 
est tribe  I  know  of  in  our  human  family,"  says 
Dr.  Collyer,  "the  Society  of  Friends."  When 
she  was  twelve  years  of  age,  her  family  removed 
to  Boston,  where  she  began  in  the  public  schools 
an  education  which  was  finished  in  a  private 
boarding  school  in  New  York.  She  "grew  out  of 
her  childhood  a  wise  and  helpful  little  maid"; 
and,  while  still  very  young,  found  an  ideal  mate 
for  her  life  journey  in  James  Mott. 

"When  I  first  knew  them,"  writes  Dr.  Collyer, 
"they  had  lived  together  more  than  forty  years, 
and  I  thought  then,  as  I  think  now,  that  it  was 
about  the  most  perfect  wedded  life  to  be  found  on 
the  earth.  They  were  both  of  a  most  beautiful 
presence,  both  of  the  sunniest  spirit,  both  free  to 
take  their  own  way  as  such  fine  souls  always  are. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  157 

and  yet  their  life  was  so  perfectly  one  that  neither 
of  them  led  or  followed  the  other,  so  far  as  you 
could  observe,  by  the  breadth  of  a  line.  He  could 
speak  well  in  a  slow  wise  way  when  the  spirit 
moved  him,  and  his  words  were  all  the  choicer 
because  they  were  so  few.  But  his  greatness,  for 
he  was  great,  lay  still  in  the  fine  silent  manhood 
which  would  only  break  into  fluent  speech  as  you 
sat  with  him  by  the  bright  wood-fire  in  winter, 
while  the  good  wife  went  on  with  her  eternal  knit- 
ting, ...  or  as  we  sat  by  the  pear  tree  in  sum- 
mer in  the  gloaming  between  light  and  dark. 
Then  James  Mott  would  open  his  heart  to  those 
he  loved,  and  touch  you  with  wonder  at  the  depth 
and  beauty  of  his  thought." 

For  the  first  dozen  years  or  so  of  her  married 
life,  "while  her  children  needed  her  perpetual 
care,"  Lucretia  Mott  "gave  her  life  almost  wholly 
to  her  home  and  family."  But  the  gift  of  proph- 
ecy was  as  strong  within  as  the  instinct  of 
motherhood,  and  as  years  went  on  she  became 
known  as  one  of  the  great  social  and  spiritual 
forces  of  the  age.  "It  was  not  possible,"  writes 
Dr.  Collyer  again,  "that  Lucretia  Mott  should 
keep  silence  in  the  churches,  no  matter  what  Paul 
might  say  to  the  contrary,  because  that  grand 
brain  was  created  to  think  and  the  noble  heart 
to  beat  through  moving  and  moulding  speech,  and 


158      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

those  fine  grey  eyes  to  see  what  the  prophets 
see.  And  so,  had  she  not  been  raised  among 
those  who  have  always  held  the  woman  to  be  a 
minister  of  God  as  truly  as  the  man,  I  cannot 
imagine  her  among  the  silent  sisters  who  so  often 
have  a  word  to  say,  but  dare  not  say  it  to  save 
not  their  souls  but  the  souls  of  those  about  them. 
"An  old  friend  in  Lancaster  County,"  con- 
tinues the  Doctor,  "told  me  once  of  his  first  hear- 
ing her  in  the  early  days  when  as  yet  she  was  al- 
most unknown.  It  had  been  a  dreary  time  among 
Triends'  up  there,  and  being  a  man  who  did  not 
care  overmuch  for  the  traditions  of  first  day  and 
fourth  day,  he  was  getting  tired  of  it  all,  when  one 
first  day  he  went  to  his  meeting  expecting  noth- 
ing as  usual  and  pretty  sure  he  should  not  be 
disappointed.  Nor  was  he,  for  a  time.  .  .  .  Then 
a  woman  stood  up  he  had  not  seen  before,  whose 
presence  touched  him  with  a  strange  new  expec- 
tation. She  looked,  he  said,  as  one  who  had  no 
great  hold  on  life,  and  began  to  speak  in  low  level 
tones,  with  just  a  touch  of  hesitation,  as  of  one 
who  is  feeling  after  her  thought,  and  there  was  a 
tremor  as  if  she  felt  the  burden  of  the  spirit  on 
her  heart.  But  she  found  her  way  out  of 
all  this;  and  then,  he  said,  'I  began  to  hold  my 
breath,  I  had  heard  no  such  speaking  in  all  my 
life.    It  was  so  born  of  all  conviction,  so  surely 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  159 

out  of  the  inner  heart  of  the  truth,  and  so  radiant 
with  the  inward  light  for  which  I  had  been  wait- 
ing, that  I  went  home  feeling  as  I  suppose  they 
must  have  felt  in  the  old  time  who  thought  they 
had  seen  an  angel. 

"I  heard  one  such  grand  outpouring  too,"  says 
Dr.  Collyer,  in  his  reminiscences.  "It  was  at  a 
woods  meeting  up  among  the  hills  where  quite  a 
number  of  us  had  our  say,  and  then  my  friend's 
turn  came.  She  was  well  on  in  years  then,  but 
the  old  fire  still  burnt  clear,  and  God's  breath 
touched  her  out  of  heaven,  and  she  prophesied.  I 
suppose  she  spoke  for  two  hours,  but  after  the 
first  moments,  she  never  faltered  or  failed  to  hold 
the  multitude  spell-bound  and  waiting  on  her 
word.  Yet  there  was  no  least  hint  of  pre-medi- 
tation,  while  there  was  boundless  wealth  of  medi- 
tation in  her  deep  and  pregnant  thoughts.  I  said 
she  prophesied — no  other  term  would  answer  to 
her  speech.  It  was  as  when  Isaiah  cried,  Every 
valley  shall  be  exalted  and  every  mountain  and 
hill  shall  be  made  low,  and  the  crooked  shall  be 
made  straight  and  the  rough  places  plain.  Her 
*eyes  had  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 
Lord,'  and  she  'testified  of  that  she  had  seen.' 
And  this  was  all  the  more  wonderful  to  me  be- 
cause it  was  the  habit  of  her  mind  in  her  later  life 
to  reason — from  premise  to  conclusion,  and  let 


160      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

this  suffice.  But  she  had  seen  a  vision,  sitting 
there  in  the  August  splendour,  with  the  voice  whis- 
pering to  her  of  God's  presence  in  the  trees,  and 
the  vision  had  set  the  heart  high  above  the  brain. 
They  were  care-worn  and  work-worn  folk  she 
saw  before  her  with  knotted  hands  resting  on  the 
staff  or  folded  quietly  on  the  lap.  They  had 
nearly  done  the  good  day's  work,  and  now  the 
preacher  and  prophet  was  needed  to  tell  them 
what  the  day's  work  meant  where  they  keep  the 
books  for  us.  .  .  .  There  were  youths  and  maid- 
ens also  about  her  who  had  yet  to  bear  the  world's 
burdens  and  fight  its  battles.  They  were  glanc- 
ing over  toward  each  other  as  they  have  done 
time  out  of  mind.  She  made  the  good  time  com- 
ing glorious  for  them.  It  was  not  to  be  a  dreary 
world  and  life,  but  a  world  and  life  affluent  with 
what  was  best  from  all  aspiration  and  all  striving, 
since  what  she  loved  to  call  the  moral  sense  came 
forth  to  fight  for  the  good  against  the  evil.  She 
sang  of  the  sacredness  of  what  was  in  their  hearts 
of  the  home  and  the  children,  and  that  the  good 
is  immortal  and  eternal,  as  God's  life  and  heaven 
may  be  right  here  on  the  earth.  I  think  I  should 
not  quite  have  known  mxy  friend,  but  for  that 
woods  meeting,  as  we  should  not  quite  have 
known  the  Christ  but  for  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  161 

It  was  this  woman,  in  her  quiet  home  and  in 
company  with  her  benign  husband,  who  became, 
in  this  critical  period,  the  most  potent  influence  in 
Robert  Collyer's  life.  He  met  her  for  the  first 
time  in  1855,  under  circumstances  and  with  re- 
sults that  were  ever  memorable. 

"I  was  living,"  he  writes,  "about  a  mile  from  a 
place  (the  Motts)  had  bought  in  the  suburbs  of 
Philadelphia.  We  had  started  a  lyceum  the  pre- 
vious winter  in  the  school-house,  and  were  ham- 
mering away  at  a  great  rate  as  to  which  is  most 
beautiful,  the  works  of  art  or  the  works  of  nature, 
and  whether  the  Negro  or  the  Indian  had  received 
the  worst  usage  at  the  hands  of  the  white  man,  a 
matter  we  could  not  settle  for  the  life  of  us,  when 
Mr.  Edward  Davis,  a  son-in-law  of  James  and 
Lucretia,  came  in  and  before  we  knew  what  was 
coming,  plunged  us  headlong  into  the  surging 
and  angry  tides  of  Abolitionism."  Now  it 
chanced  that,  owing  to  Mr.  Davis's  fondness  for 
Scripture  and  his  genius  for  misquotation,  the  de- 
bate turned  not  upon  the  question  of  emancipa- 
tion joer  se,  but  upon  the  question  of  Biblical  au- 
thority for  slavery  and  freedom.  Mr.  Davis 
"quoted  the  prophets  but  got  them  all  wrong," 
says  Dr.  Collyer,  "and  then  those  of  us  who  could 
handle  them  saw  the  crevice  in  his  armour  and 
gave  him  some  swift  cuts  not  on  the  right  and 


162      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

wrong  of  the  question  at  issue,  mark  you,  but  on 
his  ignorance  of  the  right  prophets."  Then  one 
night,  when  the  debate  was  being  continued,  Lu- 
cretia  ]Mott  came  in  and  spoke.  "There  is  no 
time  to  tell  this  story,"  says  the  Doctor,  in  the 
fullest  account  which  he  has  left  us  of  the  episode, 
"but  the  essence  of  her  argument  lay  here — You 
must  not  try  to  prove  your  truth  by  the  Bible,  but 
your  Bible  by  the  truth!" 

The  statement  of  this  great  principle,  formu- 
lated in  the  familiar  quotation  from  Mrs.  Mott 
as  "Truth  for  authority,  not  authority  for  truth," 
was  in  all  probability  the  greatest  single  influence 
from  the  outer  world  that  ever  came  to  bear  on 
the  intellectual  life  of  Robert  Collyer.  For  years, 
his  mind  had  been  jambed  with  a  tangle  of  con- 
flicting dogmas,  like  a  Maine  forest-stream 
a- jamb  with  logs.  The  momentum  of  his  thought, 
like  the  current  of  the  river,  only  seemed  to 
tighten  the  jamb.  Nev/  ideas,  like  fresh  logs,  only 
piled  up  the  confusion  and  made  the  situation 
more  hopeless.  The  future  life,  the  nature  of 
man,  the  love  of  God,  the  atonement,  the  resur- 
rection— here  they  were ;  and  at  the  heart  of  them 
all  the  baffling  question  of  the  validity  of  the 
Scriptures.  And  now  came  a  single  divine  word, 
like  the  single  push  of  the  skilled  timberman  of 
the  forests  against  the  crucial  log  in  the  tangle — 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  163 

and  lo !  immediate  and  complete  release !  For  the 
first  time,  Robert  CoUyer  comprehended  the  na- 
ture of  his  difficulty — that  he  had  no  standard  of 
judgment,  no  "seat  of  authority."  Now  was  re- 
vealed to  him,  by  a  prophet,  the  sanctity  of  the 
reason — that  he  must  judge  for  himself  what  is 
true  and  right — that  his  own  soul  must  be  the 
arbiter  of  his  faith.  It  was  the  truth  proclaimed 
by  Emerson  in  his  "Self-Reliance,"  by  Parker 
in  his  conception  of  the  intuitions  of  the  reason,  by 
Channing  in  his  epoch-making  declaration  "that 
our  ultimate  reliance  is,  and  must  be,  on  the  rea- 
son. Faith  in  this  pow^r  lies  at  the  foundation 
of  all  other  faith.  ...  I  am  surer  that  my  ra- 
tional nature  is  from  God  than  that  any  book  is 
an  expression  of  his  will."  This  is  not  new  to  us, 
and  it  was  not  new  to  the  leading  spirits  of  the 
'50s.  But  it  was  new  to  Robert  Collyer.  He  had 
discovered  afresh  for  himself,  what  the  age  had 
already  discovered,  that  he  could  think  for  him- 
self, pass  rational  and  moral  judgments  upon 
theological  dogmas  without  fear  of  the  Bible,  nay, 
judge  the  Bible  itself,  and  accept  or  reject  it,  in 
whole  or  in  part,  on  the  basis  of  reason.  At  once, 
he  was  free.  His  own  creed,  his  own  Bible,  his 
own  God,  he  w  ould  forthwith  find,  or  make ;  and 
woe  betide  Methodism,  or  any  other  kind  of  'ism, 
which  attempted  to  block  his  pathway. 


164      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

From  this  fateful  moment  on  to  the  time  of  his 
departure  for  Chicago,  Lucretia  Mott  was  one  of 
Robert  Collyer's  closest  friends  and  without  ex- 
ception his  most  intimate  counsellor.  "After 
some  weeks,"  he  writes,  "James  INIott  said,  'We 
want  thee  to  come  to  our  house.'  And  I  went, 
as  I  had  gone  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Davis  in  Phila- 
delphia. But  I  wxnt  with  that  sensitive  pride  a 
self-respecting  w^orking-man  always  feels  in  such 
a  case.  I  would  stand  no  patronage,  no  conde- 
scension. ...  If  I  felt  this  ever  in  the  atmos- 
phere, they  should  go  their  way,  and  I  would  go 
mine.  But  I  found  it  was  simply  like  falling  into 
another  and  ampler  home  of  my  own.  And  this 
was  not  something  they  were  doing  carefully  and 
by  concert.  It  was  natural  to  them  as  their  life. 
They  had  no  room  in  their  fine  natures  for  any 
other  thought. — This  was  how  I  came  to  know 
these  friends,  and  to  be  at  last  almost  as  one  of 
their  own  kinsmen." 

Robert  Collyer  was  now  free  inwardly ;  but  he 
was  still  a  Methodist!  Did  he  want  to  remain 
one?  If  so,  could  he  do  so  with  honesty  to  him- 
self and  his  associates?  If  not,  where  was  he  to 
find  the  religious  home  so  necessary  to  his  domes- 
tic spirit  ?  He  had  lost  the  old ;  but,  as  these  que- 
ries show,  he  had  not  yet  found  the  new! 

It  is  here  that  we  mark  the  entrance  into  Coll- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  165 

yer's  life  of  the  second  personal  influence,  of 
which  I  have  spoken. 

Dr.  William  Henry  Furness,  pastor  of  the 
First  Unitarian  Church  of  Philadelphia  from 
1825  to  1875,  graduated  from  Harvard  College 
in  1821,  in  the  same  class  with  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson.  He  was  at  this  time  in  the  full  tide 
of  a  public  ministry  which  was  destined  to  be  as 
influential  as  it  was  prolonged.  A  man  of  hand- 
some countenance,  noble  bearing,  fine  culture, 
and  singularly  persuasive  speech,  he  was  already 
one  of  the  leading  figures  in  the  life  of  the  Quaker 
city.  Outside  his  own  immediate  circle,  and  that 
of  his  parish,  however,  he  was  regarded  at  this 
particular  moment  with  no  little  suspicion  and 
even  fear.  The  reasons  for  this  attitude  were, 
in  the  first  place,  that  he  was  an  unflinching  ex- 
ponent of  Unitarianism  in  a  community  which, 
with  the  exception  of  a  small  group  of  liberal 
Friends,  was  orthodox  in  doctrine  and  in  temper. 
Secondly,  and  far  more  serious,  he  was  an  out- 
spoken and  uncompromising  Abolitionist  in  a 
period  and  in  a  neighborhood  which  were  bitterly 
hostile  to  the  whole  anti-slavery  propaganda.  He 
ranked  with  Theodore  Parker,  Thomas  Went- 
worth  Higginson  and  Samuel  J.  May,  as  one  of 
the  few  clergymen  in  the  North,  even  of  the  lib- 
eral wing  of  Protestant  Christianity,  who  "hewed 


166      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  the  line,  let  the  chips  fall  where  they  may," 
on  this  burning  issue  of  human  rights. 

Later  years  which  settled  the  slavery  problem, 
and  rounded  off  the  sharp  edges  of  theological 
controversy,  brought  to  him  a  full  measure  of 
public  confidence  and  affection,  to  match  the  re- 
spect which  his  character  and  abilities  had  com- 
manded from  the  beginning.  Gentle  and  yet 
fearless — aristocratic  in  breeding,  highly  cultured 
in  training,  and  yet  intensely  democratic  in  spirit 
— a  true  prophet  of  the  inner  light,  a  tireless 
seeker  after  truth,  a  valiant  champion  of  freedom 
— Dr.  Furness  was  one  of  the  most  attractive  and 
impressive  men  of  his  time.  His  church  work  was 
singularly  happy  and  beneficent — his  public  ac- 
tivities of  wide  and  potent  influence — his  home 
life  a  perfect  idyl  of  wholesome  virtue,  fruit- 
ful culture,  and  generous  hospitality.  "It  was  a 
household  consecrated  to  truth,  humanity,  litera- 
ture and  art,"  writes  Moncure  D.  Conway  in  his 
"Autobiography."  "No  one  who  enjoyed  inti- 
macy in  it  can  wonder  that  the  daughter  (Mrs. 
Wister)  attained  eminence  in  literature;  that  of 
the  sons,  William  became  an  accomplished 
painter,  Frank  an  eminent  architect,  while  Hor- 
ace is  the  foremost  Shakespeare  scholar."  * 

*  Volume  I,  page  129. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  167 

To  Dr.  Collyer,  "Father"  Fumess,  as  he  called 
him,  was  always  "the  faithful  and  true  witness 
for  God  and  the  right" ;  the  man  who  "of  all  men 
in  the  world  opened  the  way  for  me  to  the  faith 
and  fellowship  which  have  been  one  long  benedic- 
tion and  will  be  to  the  end;  the  infidel  Abolitionist 
who  told  me  he  was  presented  once  to  the  grand 
jury  in  this  city  for  the  things  he  said  in  his 
pulpit  pleading  for  the  slave,  and  Judge  Kane 
of  all  men  threw  out  the  bill — who  told  us  also 
how  some  members  of  the  church  wrote  or  signed 
a  letter  begging  him  to  let  the  question  alone  and 
preach  religion;  and  then  other  members,  when 
they  heard  of  this,  also  wrote  a  letter  asking  him 
to  stand  by  the  banner  of  freedom,  and  then  he 
would  tell  me  with  a  tiny  gust  of  laughter  that 
quite  a  number  who  had  signed  the  first  letter 
signed  the  second.  This  was  the  stand  he  made 
in  the  evil  days,  but  as  he  would  tell  me  the  story, 
he  would  always  speak  of  others  in  the  noble  band 
rather  than  himself. — But  there  is  no  time  to  tell 
of  the  many  years  and  many  things,"  continues 
the  Doctor  in  his  lecture  in  reminiscence  of  Dr. 
Furness,  spoken  shortly  after  the  latter's  death. 
"I  wanted  only  to  tell  you  how  utterly  and  for- 
ever I  am  debtor  to  my  dear  good  Father,  who 
clasped  my  hand  that  day  so  many  years  ago  and 
never  left  me.    Have  I  done  something  whereof 


168      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

I  may  boast?  By  the  law  of  works,  nay!  But  by 
the  law  of  grace  from  on  high,  and  then  from 
him  of  whom  I  speak.'* 

It  was  at  the  very  moment  when  Robert  Coll- 
yer  had  found  his  spiritual  freedom,  but  was  wan- 
dering, bewildered  and  not  a  little  dismayed,  in 
unfamiliar  places,  not  knowing  whither  he  went, 
that  he  found  this  "guide,  philosopher  and 
friend."  ^  It  was  through  Mr.  Davis,  and  thus 
indirectly  through  the  Motts,  that  he  was  first 
brought  in  touch  with  Dr.  Furness.  "I  remem- 
ber as  if  it  were  yesterday,"  writes  Dr.  Collyer, 
"how  he  greeted  me.  His  soft  clean  hand  clasped 
mine,  hard  and  horny  by  my  many  years'  work  at 
the  anvil,  with  no  tremor  of  surprise  or  hair's- 
breadth  of  distance  in  his  eyes  or  his  voice.  This 
I  can  never  forget,  for  I  think  if  he  had  given 
back,  so  should  I ;  but  from  that  moment,  I  gave 
him  my  heart." 

The  influence  of  Dr.  Furness,  imparted  in  per- 
sonal conversations  and  in  public  preaching,  was 
very  great.  More  than  any  one  thing,  it  enabled 
Robert  Collyer  to  find  himself  in  this  period  of 
confusion  and  lost  direction.  It  was  undoubtedly 
the  decisive  factor  in  turning  him  toward  Uni- 
tarianism,  and  bringing  him  at  last  into  the  Uni- 

» Already  found  indirectly  through  his  book,  "The  Journal  of  a 
Poor  Vicar,"  see  above,  page  71. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  169 

tarian  church.  Through  a  long  succession  of 
months,  the  rough  mechanic  hunted  out  the  pol- 
ished scholar  in  his  study  for  counsel  and  in- 
struction, borrowed  books  of  all  kinds  from  his 
overflowing  library,  and  whenever  opportunity 
offered  sat  in  his  church,  Sunday  morning  or 
evening,  and  listened  to  his  sermons.  Dr.  CoUyer 
relates  one  memorable  occasion  when  he  went 
into  the  city  to  preach  for  the  coloured  people  in 
one  of  their  churches,  and  to  stay  overnight  with 
one  of  their  members.  *'In  the  evening  I  said,  *I 
will  go  and  hear  Dr.  Furness.'  It  was  a  wild, 
dark  night,  and  there  was  such  a  congregation  as 
I  have  learned  long  ago  to  look  for  in  our 
churches  on  a  wild,  dark  night — something  over 
a  dozen,  certainly,  not  a  score. — The  sermon 
touched  the  story  in  the  Gospel  of  John,  the 
washing  of  the  feet,  and,  as  he  went  on,  I  felt  he 
was  just  talking  to  me;  so  that  I  saw  what  he 
saw  as  in  a  vision ;  heard  the  voices  he  most  surely 
heard,  and  was  spell-bound  as  I  sat  at  his  feet. 
It  marked  an  era  in  my  faith  and  my  life;  and 
when  the  service  was  over,  and  I  went  up  to  offer 
him  that  same  hard  hand,  he  said,  'I  saw  you,  and 
then  I  seemed  to  have  only  one  hearer  this  even- 
ing,' and  told  me  not  long  after  that  this  was  the 
first  time  he  had  spoken  in  the  pulpit  without  the 
manuscript." 


170      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Such  an  influence  from  such  an  apostle  of  the 
spirit  was  bound  to  have  decisive  affect  upon  the 
storm-tossed  Methodist  now  seeking  for  a  haven. 
From  this  time  on,  Robert  Collyer  knew  himself 
and  discerned  whither  he  was  bound.  It  was  a 
prospect  not  easy  to  contemplate  all  at  once; 
there  must  have  been  not  a  few  moments  of  fear 
and  even  despair.  But  Dr.  Furness  was  ever  be- 
side him  in  these  critical  times,  and  his  guidance 
led  him  by  secure  paths  to  pleasant  resting-places. 
Lovely  was  the  relationship  between  these  two 
men.  No  barrier  of  birth  or  training,  no  dif- 
ference of  occupation,  culture  or  manners,  could 
hold  them  even  temporarily  asunder.  Each  saw 
the  worth  of  the  other,  and  joined  by  instant  and 
common  consent  the  close-knit  bonds  of  love.  At 
first  Dr.  Furness  was  to  the  younger  man  as  a 
teacher  or  "father-confessor" ;  in  later  years,  the 
two  were  colleagues,  fellow-labourers  in  the  vine- 
yard ;  at  last,  when  the  day's  work  was  over,  they 
were  friends,  laden  with  years,  but  in  spirit  as 
Jonathan,  the  prince,  and  David,  the  shepherd's 
son.  "I  spent  four  days,"  says  Dr.  Collyer  in 
his  final  reminiscence  of  Dr.  Furness,  "in  the 
delightful  home  we  remember  so  well,  only  one 
week  before  he  was  translated.  We  talked  of  the 
old  times,  and  went  to  the  Park.  This  was  in  the 
winter,  and  he  said,  'You  must  be  sure  to  come 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  171 

in  the  spring.'  But  in  the  spring  the  tree  of  life 
had  blossomed  for  him  fast  by  the  throne  of  God, 
and  now  it  cannot  be  long  before  I  shall  find  him 
again,  if  I  am  so  worthy,  whose  life  down  here 
was  hid  with  Christ  in  God." 

Through  such  processes  of  inward  thought  and 
outward  influence  as  these,  was  Robert  Collyer 
transformed  into  an  out-and-out  theological 
heretic.  Inevitably,  indications  of  his  unsound- 
ness in  the  faith  began  to  appear  in  his  preaching, 
and  give  rise  to  whispered  suspicions  and  com- 
plaints. Once  and  again  these  were  taken  up  by 
louder  voices,  as  when  a  certain  employer  of 
labour  in  Shoemakertown  rose  up  to  say  that  the 
blacksmith,  Collyer,  was  teaching  heresy  to  his 
employees.^  Not  that  he  deliberately  sought  to 
tear  down  the  accepted  doctrines  of  Methodism! 
This  heartsome  preacher  did  not  now  care  enough 
about  the  doctrinal  side  of  religion  to  introduce 
theological  controversy  into  his  pulpits.  "I  never 
cared  for  what  we  call  dogma,"  he  tells  us  in  his 
"Some  Memories."  "I  preached  much  more 
about  the  life  that  now  is,  because  this  was  what 
always  lay  near  my  heart."  But  this  very  fact 
was  itself  a  cause  for  alarm,  inasmuch  as  preach- 

'  A  shrewd  contemporary  suggests  that  "possibly  the  said  man, 
an  employer  of  blacksmiths  and  labourers,  rather  disliked  to  hear 
a  preacher  of  the  social  grade  of  his  workmen,  with  so  much 
knowledge  of  books  and  such  command  of  good  English!" 


172      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

ing  on  moral  and  spiritual  truths,  as  distinct  from 
articles  of  belief,  was  as  unusual  and  therefore 
heretical  in  the  orthodox  circles  of  those  days  as 
preaching  on  political  and  industrial  truths  is  to- 
day. What  the  good  Methodist  brethren  wanted 
was  dogma,  "good  measure,  pressed  down, 
shaken  together,  running  over" ;  and  this  was  just 
the  very  thing  for  which  this  great-hearted  and 
broad-minded  apostle  cared  not  at  all.  Hence  the 
people  grew  restless  and  discontented,  and  by  and 
by  it  began  to  be  rumoured  abroad  that  the  York- 
shireman  "didn't  believe  any  more  in  the  doctrines 
so  precious  and  essential."  This  of  course  was 
true,  "but  not,"  as  he  makes  haste  to  remind  us, 
"by  flat  denial  in  the  pulpit." 

That  this  conversion  to  liberalism,  if  I  may  call 
it  such,  would  sooner  or  later  have  led  of  itself  to 
a  definite  break  with  his  Methodist  associates,  is 
certain.  Collyer  would  have  left  the  church  for 
the  sake  of  his  own  intellectual  integrity,  if  for 
no  other  reason.  The  trouble  was  complicated 
and  the  inevitable  break  hastened,  however,  by 
his  acceptance  of  the  Abolition  programme,  and 
his  resulting  activity  in  the  more  radical  form  of 
anti-slavery  propaganda. 

With  this  question,  as  with  the  question  of 
theology,  Robert  Collyer's  attitude  was  funda- 
mentally a  matter  of  inward  conviction.     Love 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  173 

of  freedom  was  his  heritage  as  a  free-born  Eng- 
lishman. Furthermore,  on  this  very  problem  of 
emancipation  for  the  Negro,  his  father  blazed  a 
trail  in  which  his  feet  could  not  but  follow.  For 
this  stalwart  workingman,  although  dearly  lik- 
ing a  bit  of  sugar,  we  are  told,  had  gone  without 
any  for  years  in  order  that  he  might  give  the 
money  thereby  saved  towards  the  liberation  of 
the  slaves  in  the  West  Indies.  In  this  case,  how- 
ever, as  in  the  other,  outward  influences  had  their 
due  share  in  the  fashioning  of  his  ideals ;  and  in 
this  case,  as  in  the  other  also,  these  influences 
were  the  same — namely,  James  and  Lucretia 
Mott,  and  Dr.  Furness. 

Collyer  had  felt  immediate  sympathy  with  the 
anti-slavery  cause,  of  course,  as  soon  as  he  ar- 
rived in  this  country.  His  zeal  was  somewhat 
tempered,  however,  by  the  feeling  which  he  found 
everywhere  prevailing  in  Pennsylvania,  that  no 
attempt  must  be  made  to  secure  emancipation  by 
drastic  measures  of  abolition;  rather  must  the 
question  be  left  alone  to  settle  itself,  as  it  surely 
would  in  the  near  or  distant  future.  "The  good 
Methodists,"  he  writes,  "had  taken  the  ground  in 
a  great  majority  that  you  must  let  slavery  alone 
and  it  would  die  out,  and  the  Abolitionists  were 
a  curse  in  the  land,  and  infidels.  I  took  that 
ground,  and  held  it  the  best  I  knew," 


174      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

The  first  time  that  he  ever  met  a  genuine  Aboli- 
tionist, or  heard  the  Abolitionist  cause  properly 
presented,  was  at  the  lyceum  meeting  above  re- 
ferred to/  when  Edward  Davis  launched  debate 
upon  the  question,  "Are  the  Garrisonian  Aboli- 
tionists worthy  the  confidence  and  support  of  the 
American  people?"  "I  warrant  you,"  writes  Dr. 
Colly er,  in  report  of  this  meeting,  "that  in  one 
hour  the  fat  was  in  the  fire."  Mr.  Davis  sup- 
ported the  affirmative  with  zeal  and  power,  even 
if  with  lamentable  misquotation  of  Scripture. 
Collyer  and  others  advocated  the  policy  of 
laissez-faire  J  and  denounced  the  Abolitionists. 
So  hot  was  the  discussion,  that  it  was  continued 
at  a  later  meeting.  And  it  was  here  that  Lucretia 
Mott  appeared,  and  not  only  imparted  to  Robert 
Collyer  a  new  theological  revelation,  as  we  have 
seen,  but  gave  so  eloquent  a  plea  for  the  cause  of 
immediate  emancipation,  that  he  was  converted 
on  the  spot.  "She  poured  out  her  soul  on  us,"  is 
his  word,  "and  I  for  one  threw  up  my  hands 
and  said.  You  are  right.  I  fight  henceforth  under 
this  banner." 

And  fight  he  did!  Close  association  with  the 
Motts,  and  with  Dr.  Furness,  soon  confirmed  and 
grounded  him  in  the  faith,  and  everywhere  that 
he  had  a  chance,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  he 

'See  page  161. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  175 

proclaimed  the  gospel  of  emancipation.  He 
preached  it  in  the  pulpit,  taught  it  on  the  plat- 
form, talked  it  at  the  forge  and  in  the  lyceum. 
He  joined  the  local  Abolition  society,  and  spoke 
at  its  public  meetings  whenever  he  had  oppor- 
tunity. He  attached  himself  in  1856  to  the  newly- 
organised  Republican  Party  and  took  the  stump 
on  behalf  of  its  candidate,  John  C.  Fremont. 
Now  and  then,  he  sought  out,  or  was  solicited  by, 
the  coloured  people  themselves,  and  gladly  ad- 
dressed their  churches  and  accepted  entertain- 
ment in  their  homes.  By  this  time,  he  had  de- 
veloped oratorical  gifts  of  unquestioned  charm 
and  power ;  and  it  may  be  noted  that,  in  the  thrill 
and  challenge  of  this  anti-slavery  campaigning, 
his  genius  as  a  public  speaker  received  a  training 
in  ease,  scope  and  authority,  w^hich  would  never 
have  been  possible  had  his  work  been  rigidly  con- 
fined to  the  pulpit.  During  the  last  four  years 
of  his  life  in  Shoemakertown,  Collyer  was  known 
through  all  the  country-side  as  the  most  eloquent 
orator  in  the  community;  and  constant  were  the 
demands  upon  his  time  and  strength.  Especially 
was  he  appreciated  and  loved  by  his  fellow-work- 
ers. Moncure  D.  Conway  records  in  his  "Auto- 
biography" an  attractive  scene  in  Robert  Colly er's 
life  during  this  period.  "Filled  with  enthusiasm," 
he  writes,  "I  attended  a  Fremont  meeting  at 


176      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

Morristown,  near  Philadelphia.  The  chief 
speaker  was  Senator  Hale,  and  there  I  first  heard 
the  voice  of  Robert  Collyer.  The  great-hearted 
Yorkshireman  was  clamoured  for  by  his  fellow- 
workingmen  in  the  meeting,  but  being  unknown 
to  the  chairman,  it  was  after  some  delay  that  he 
was  brought  to  the  platform.  He  came  up  shyly, 
being  still  in  the  iron-works'  dress,  but  no  garb 
could  disguise  his  noble  presence,  and  the  enthu- 
siasm excited  by  his  speech  was  the  great  event  of 
the  evening.  I  set  him  down  in  my  memorabilia 
as  a  risen  and  immigrant  Ebenezer  Elliott."  ^ 
Needless  to  say,  activity  such  as  this  was  heresy 
in  Methodist  circles !  At  one  time,  in  November, 
1856, — the  fall  of  the  great  political  campaign 
of  that  year,  be  it  noted — Collyer  was  so  con- 
scious of  opposition  to  what  he  was  doing,  that 
he  resigned  his  office  as  a  circuit-preacher.  But 
the  brethren  loved  him,  and  believed  in  him,  and 
therefore,  in  spite  of  their  distrust  of  his  doctrine, 
refused  to  let  him  go.  It  was  impossible,  how- 
ever, that  such  a  situation,  doubly  complicated  as 
it  was,  could  long  continue.  At  last,  by  a  peculiar 
chance,  the  twin  heresies  of  which  he  was  guilty 
united  in  one  single  event,  and  precipitated  a 
crisis.  Dr.  Collyer  tells  the  story  in  his  lecture 
on  Dr.  Furness. 

•Volume  I,  page  238. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  177 

"My  old  friend  of  the  many  years,  Moncure 
Conway,  then  our  minister  in  Cincinnati,  was  to 
be  married,  and  wanted  Dr.  Furness  to  come  out 
and  marry  him.  It  was  always  difficult  to  leave, 
but  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  if  I  would  take  the 
pulpit  in  his  absence,  wrote  to  ask  me,  and  I  had 
the  temerity  to  say  I  would.  But  will  you  try  to 
realise  what  this  meant,  what  courage  in  him,  and 
sheer  daring.  He  had  never  heard  me  speak,  ex- 
cept I  think  in  Sanson  Street  Hall,  at  a  meet- 
ing of  the  Garrisonian  Abolitionists,  and  then, 
whatever  the  speech  might  be,  it  would  not  be 
preaching.  I  was  still  a  local  preacher  in  my 
mother  Methodist  church;  but,  by  this  time,  in 
not  very  good  standing  for  speaking  on  that  in- 
fidel platform  against  the  great  curse.  It  made 
no  matter  to  your  brave  minister.  I  must  come ! 
I  remember  also  I  made  seventy-two  dozen  claw- 
hammers  that  week  by  hand,  walked  in  on  the 
Sunday  morning  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth  and 
all  a-tremble  to  say  my  word  from  the  text,  'The 
Lord  God  is  a  sun  to  them  that  walk  uprightly.' 
I  have  not  the  faintest  memory  of  the  sermon,  and 
had  no  paper;  but  if  you  will  let  me  say  so,  my 
heart  was  greatly  moved,  while  long  afterward 
I  heard  Mr.  Conway  say  that  your  minister  had 
said  if  the  effort  was  fairly  satisfactory,  he  would 
like  to  stay  west  over  another  Sunday.     Well, 


178      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

a  letter  was  sent  to  say  he  might  stay,  and  wel- 
come.^ 

"I  think  these  services  .  .  .  were  the  last  feather 
the  brethren  could  bear.  One  of  the  elders  asked 
me  if  I  had  given  up  the  divinitjr  of  Christ,  and 
I  said  'No,  I  had  taken  up  his  humanity.'  I  was 
never  any  good  on  eternal  damnation — and  was 
reported  to  our  Presiding  Elder — a  good-hearted 
man,  fond  of  fishing — as  a  man  not  sound  in  the 
faith."  The  culmination  of  years  of  growth  on 
his  part,  and  of  long-continued  unrest  on  the  part 
of  the  brethren,  was  now  come.  The  break  could 
not  longer  be  postponed.  So  Colly er  went  to  the 
quarterly  conference  in  January,  1859,  with  his 
mind  made  up  to  resign  as  a  local  preacher.  Be- 
fore he  could  take  this  step,  however,  he  found 
himself  called  up  by  the  Presiding  Elder  on 
charges,  and  asked  to  answer  certain  questions. 
"One  question  put  to  me  was.  Why  had  I  spoken 
on  infidel  platforms  and  preached  in  an  infidel 

^  "A  notable  event  was  connected  with  the  visit  of  Dr.  Furness," 
writes  Moncure  D.  Conway  in  his  "Autobiography."  "When  I 
offered  him  payment,  he  said  he  would  accept  nothing  for  himself, 
but  would  give  what  I  offered  to  a  workingman  of  ability  near 
Philadelphia,  who  for  some  time  had  preached  for  the  Methodists. 
He  had  become  unorthodox,  and  would  preach  in  the  Unitarian 
pulpit  on  the  Sunday  of  Furness's  absence.  The  man  was  Robert 
Colly  er.  ...  It  was  always  a  satisfaction  to  us  that  the  first  hono- 
rarium ever  given  Robert  CoUyer  for  a  sermon  was  our  marria^q 
fee."— Volume  I,  page  287. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  179 

pulpit?"  Other  questions  were  about  doctrine 
and  dogma — the  Trinity,  eternal  punishment,  the 
fall  of  man,  and  the  like.  The  indictment  was 
finally  reduced  to  three  articles — first,  that  he 
did  not  believe  in  eternal  hell;  secondly,  that  he 
rejected  the  doctrine  of  total  human  depravity; 
thirdly,  that  he  could  not  agree  that  a  Unitarian 
was  damned  because  he  disbelieved  in  the  Trinity. 
Having  come  ''to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,"  the 
heretic  answered  all  inquiries  freely  and  frankly, 
and  ended  by  saying  that  he  had  come  to  the  con- 
ference prepared  to  make  a  statement  and  pre- 
sent his  resignation  in  any  case.  The  Elder  said, 
"not  unkindly,  There  w^as  no  help  for  it" ;  and  the 
proffered  resignation  was  accepted. 

The  next  Sunday,  at  a  full  meeting  in  the 
church,  announcement  was  made  of  what  had 
come  to  pass.  Robert  Collyer  was  not  present, 
but  his  wife  was ;  and  it  was  a  pathetic  report  she 
brought  back  of  how  "there  were  moans  and  weep- 
ing." The  good  brethren  had  no  relish  for  their 
task ;  Collyer  was  loved  too  deeply  and  esteemed 
too  highly,  for  his  departure  to  be  viewed  with 
anything  short  of  lamentation.  His  heresy  was 
plain,  however,  and  he  had  to  go !  And  yet  even 
so,  he  "was  estopped  only  from  the  pulpit,  but 
not  from  the  church."  By  some  strange  chance, 
or  generous  intention,  he  was  never  dismissed 


180      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

from  the  Methodist  body  itself.  "I  was  still  a 
member,"  he  writes,  "and  may  be  still;  and  may 
say  sincerely  I  have  never  thought  of  the  good 
old  mother  as  any  mere  step-mother." 

This  experience  at  bottom  was  a  glad  relief. 
It  was  well  to  have  behind  in  the  past  what  had 
so  long  been  threatening  in  the  future.  "I  seemed 
to  draw  a  long  breath  when  all  was  over,"  is  Dr. 
Collyer's  testimony  in  his  "Some  Memories." 
And  yet,  he  immediately  follows  this  with  the 
confession  that  he  "was  not  glad."  How  could 
he  be,  with  so  much  that  had  been  the  best  sub- 
stance of  his  life  deliberately  cut  away  as  by  a 
kind  of  surgery?  Then,  too,  the  brethren,  grieved 
and  generous  as  they  were,  felt  bound  by  their 
fidelity  to  the  church  not  to  have  any  dealings 
with  the  heretic,  and  abandoned  him  forthwith. 
Of  all  the  men  and  women  with  whom  he  had 
been  so  long  associated,  and  every  one  of  whom 
he  had  loved  so  dearly,  not  one  held  out  his  hand 
or  said  a  word  of  farewell.  "Intimate  as  we  had 
been  in  the  church  and  in  our  homes  through  all 
these  years,"  he  says,  "I  went  out  alone  and  lone- 
some." 

But  he  was  not  left  alone!  Dear  friends  who 
were  not  in  the  church,  and  therefore  cared  for 
none  of  these  things  called  heresy,  came  to  him 
with  cheer  and  sympathy,  and  besought  him  to 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  181 

hold  services  in  a  small  hall  which  they  would  hire, 
for  they  were  not  content  that  his  voice  should  be 
still.  He  was  not  ready,  however,  to  begin  again 
in  such  a  way;  and  therefore,  after  holding  one 
service  on  the  Sunday  following  his  suspension, 
he  preached  no  more.  This  service  was  *'the  last 
in  the  valley  for  many  a  year." 

Then  there  were  Dr.  Furness,  Mr.  Davis  and 
the  Motts,  the  presence  of  each  one  of  whom  at 
this  moment  was  as  "the  shadow  of  a  great  rock 
in  a  weary  land."  *'I  love  to  remember,"  he 
writes,  "with  what  a  tender  pathos  (Lucretia 
Mott)  opened  her  heart  to  me,  when  it  seemed 
almost  like  death  to  leave  my  old  mother  church, 
of  the  trouble  it  was  to  her  when  she  had  to  do  this 
in  the  days  of  Elias  Hicks — to  find  she  must  part 
with  old  friends  for  the  truth,  and  have  the  meet- 
ing-houses closed  to  her  in  which  she  had  loved  to 
meet  them,  and  to  suffer  reproach  that  she  might 
be  true  to  her  own  soul."  Such  words  were  as 
balm  in  Gilead.  What  she  had  done,  he  could 
do,  and,  God  helping  him,  would  do! 

And  then,  best  of  all,  was  the  helpmeet  at  home. 
Mrs.  CoUyer  still  clung  to  Methodism  and  her 
heart  was  well-nigh  broken  at  what  had  befallen 
her  husband.  But  as  they  sat  together  that  eve- 
ning "when  the  key  had  been  turned  on  the  pul- 
pits," in  the  little  house  in  the  lane,  with  the  chil- 


182      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

dren  all  asleep,  and  the  great  silence  of  the  winter 
night  outside,  and  talked  together  of  what  had 
happened,  there  came  from  her  "no  word  or  look 
of  blame, . . .  but  only  of  good  cheer."  What  won- 
der that  Robert  CoUyer  thought  of  the  day,  ten 
years  before,  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
emigrate,  and  had  offered  to  cross  the  seas  alone 
and  make  a  home  for  her  before  he  took  her  to  be 
his  wife,  and  she  had  answered  him  full  and 
strong,  "Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go,  whither 
thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge ;  thy  people  shall  be  my 
people,  and  thy  God  my  God ;  whither  thou  diest, 
I  will  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried:  the  Lord 
do  so  to  me,  and  more  also,  if  aught  but  death 
part  thee  and  me."  "The  words  were  not  said 
again  that  evening,"  records  the  Doctor,  "because 
there  was  no  need:  it  would  be  a  vain  repetition." 
There  were  comforts,  therefore,  for  the  pres- 
ent; but  what  about  the  future?  It  needed  but 
the  passing  of  a  few  days,  to  make  this  the  all- 
important  question.  Where  was  he  now  to  go? 
What  was  he  now  to  do  ?  It  seemed  from  the  first 
impossible  to  remain  in  Shoemakertown.  Fur- 
thermore, as  he  now,  for  the  first  time  perhaps,  be- 
gan to  confess  to  himself,  his  heart  was  not  in 
his  work  at  the  anvil,  but  in  his  preaching  in  the 
pulpit.  He  was  more  a  preacher  than  a  black- 
smith, skilled  artisan   though   he  was — and  he 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  183 

knew  it!  Yet  what  pulpits  were  now  open  to  him? 
Where  were  the  people  who  would  listen  to  his 
words  and  accept  his  teaching? 

The  prospect  was  certainly  dark;  when  sud- 
denly, as  though  by  a  very  interposition  of  Divine 
Providence/^  the  way  was  opened.  "Within  a 
month  of  my  suspension,"  says  the  Doctor,  "a 
letter  came  from  Chicago  by  way  of  New  York, 
to  the  dear  Father  (Furness),  asking  him  about 
a  man  of  my  name,  a  blacksmith  and  ]Methodist 
local  preacher  of  a  liberal  mind."  It  seems  that, 
on  a  certain  Sunday  some  time  before  this,  when 
Collyer  had  trudged  in  to  Philadelphia  to  hear 
Dr.  Furness  preach,  he  had  found  a  stranger  in 
the  pulpit — Dr.  Livermore,  editor  of  the  New 
York  organ  of  the  Unitarians,  Th-e  Christian  In- 
quirer. After  the  service.  Dr.  Furness  intro- 
duced Robert  Collyer  to  the  preacher  of  the  day, 
and  insisted  upon  taking  him  home  to  dinner, 
where  he  and  Dr.  Livermore  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity for  friendly  acquaintanceship.  The  black- 
smith very  evidently  made  a  profound  impression 
upon  the  New  York  clerg^^nan,  for  when  the 
Chicago  church  wrote  Dr.  Livermore  asking  him 
if  he  knew  "a  man  who  could  be  got  for  the  min- 
istry-at-large"  in  that  city,  he  replied  at  once  that 

""The   Providence   that   shapes   our   ends   had   sent   me   here." 
Robert  Collyer  to  Flesher  Bland,  in  letter  from  Chicago. 


184      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

"there  was  but  one  man  big  enough  for  the  job, 
that  was  a  blacksmith,  a  Methodist,"  named  Rob- 
ert Collyer,  and  stated  that  he  could  be  reached 
through  Dr.  Furness.  This  was  the  explanation 
of  the  letter  to  Dr.  Furness,  which  announced 
that  *'they  wanted  a  man  to  take  charge  of  their 
ministry-at-large,  and  would  he  kindly  tell  them 
if  he  thought  he  (Collyer)  would  be  able  to  fill 
the  bill."  "I  saw  the  letter  he  wrote  in  answer," 
says  the  Doctor;  "I  think  I  shall  never  be  quite 
the  man  he  said  I  was  in  that  letter ;  but  the  up- 
shot was  I  laid  down  the  hammer,  and  went  out 
to  take  charge  of  the  mission  to  the  poor." 

On  being  asked  by  Dr.  Furness  if  he  would 
consider  the  invitation  and  give  his  answer  "next 
Sunday,"  Robert  Collyer  replied  that  he  needed 
no  time  to  think  the  matter  over.  "We  will  go," 
he  said.  It  was  as  though  the  voice  had  spoken 
to  him  again;  and  he  must  obey.  Of  Chicago  he 
knew  nothing,  save  what  was  told  him  by  one  man 
at  the  forge  who  had  been  there,  and  by  his  em- 
ployer, who  had  lived  in  Illinois  in  his  younger 
years.  Both  disliked  the  place,  and  advised  him 
not  to  go.  But  Collyer  did  not  waver  for  an  in- 
stant. A  way  had  opened  in  the  direction  at  least 
of  the  work  he  most  dearly  loved  to  do,  and  he 
must  take  it  without  faltering.  The  only  ques- 
tion was  the  wife;  but  he  remembered  again  the 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  185 

night  under  the  stars  in  Ilkley  when  she  had* 
pledged  her  faith  to  him  forevermore,  and  the 
question  was  straightway  answered  and  dis- 
missed. Nor  was  he  disappointed.  "She  did  not 
east  a  pebble  in  the  way,  but  said  'Amen'  right 
heartily." 

Immediate  plans  were  made  for  removal  to  the 
western  city,  forty- four  hours'  journey  away. 
The  Chicago  people  wanted  him  to  come  out  at 
once,  but  this  the  family  could  not  do.  There  was 
a  house  to  be  disposed  of,  furniture  to  be  sold  at 
auction,  books  and  clothing  to  be  packed,  and 
children  to  be  prepared.  There  was  no  need, 
however,  for  the  father  to  delay.  So  on  Febru- 
ary 22,  1859,  Robert  Collyer  started  on  a 
journey  only  less  formidable  than  the  voyage 
across  the  Atlantic  a  decade  earlier,  and  arrived 
in  due  season  in  the  city  which  was  destined  to  be 
his  home,  and  field  of  glory,  for  the  next  twenty 
years.  In  April  he  was  joined  by  Mrs.  Collyer 
and  the  children. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  assess  the  feelings  which 
surged  in  Robert  Collyer's  heart,  as  he  entered 
upon  this  new  and  momentous  epoch  of  his  life. 
Fear,  or  rather  timidity,  always  a  genuine  emo- 
tion with  him  to  the  end  of  his  days,  must  often 
have  been  predominant.  For  who  was  he,  a  York- 
shire immigrant,  an  artisan,  a  whilom  Methodist, 


186      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  undertake  this  great  task  of  Unitarian  minis- 
ter-at-large  in  this  thriving  American  city?  Con- 
fidence, however,  must  have  had  its  place  as  well. 
For  his  marked  success  and  influence  as  a 
preacher,  his  capacity  for  friendship  with  his 
fellows,  and  above  all  the  affection  and  respect 
long  since  paid  to  him  by  such  persons  as  James 
and  Lucretia  Mott,  and  Dr.  Furness,  must  have 
given  him  some  rightful  knowledge  of  his  abili- 
ties. And  "in  all  and  through  and  over  all"  must 
have  been  a  quiet  and  yet  very  intense  joy  at  this 
opportunity  of  service  which  now  was  his.  At 
last  the  transition  from  the  anvil  to  the  pulpit,  so 
long  foreshadowed,  was  accomplished !  At  last  his 
hand  was  set  to  the  plough  for  which  he  had  long 
felt  himself  so  well  fitted,  and  therefore  yearned, 
to  drive!  At  last  his  real  life  was  begun!  That 
he  anticipated,  or  even  hoped  for,  any  such  meas- 
ure of  fame  and  iniiuence  as  later  came  to  him, 
is  not  for  a  moment  to  be  supposed.  But  there 
is  good  reason  to  believe  that  he  saw  even  at  the 
beginning  that  joy  of  mind  and  heart  which  was 
destined  from  now  on  to  be  the  guerdon  of  his 
days.  Sorrows,  disappointments,  one  vast  calam- 
ity, were  before  him.  But  he  had  found,  after 
patient  waiting  and  long  striving,  his  place  ap- 
pointed, and  in  it  that  peace  of  God  which  the 
world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  187 


CHAPTER  VII 

CHICAGO 
1859-1861 

"(Chicago)  was  alive  to  the  tips  of  her  fingers  and 
the  core  of  her  heart  and  brain.  I  had  lived  in  the 
country  all  my  life,  and  when  I  came  there  was 
thirty-six  years  of  age.  The  life  in  a  city  was  a 
new  life,  and  I  caught  something  of  the  strong  in- 
spiration."— R.  C.  in  "Some  Memories,"   page  1X6. 

In  1859,  the  year  of  Robert  Collyer's  arrival, 
Chicago  was  a  city  of  a  little  over  125,000  popu- 
lation. Situated  on  the  western  shore  of  Lake 
Michigan,  along  the  branches  of  the  Chicago 
River  and  on  the  edge  of  the  vast  prairie-lands, 
it  was  at  this  time  a  rather  unkempt,  sprawling 
and  yet  not  unlovely  town,  more  of  an  outgrown, 
or  over-grown,  frontier  settlement  than  anything 
else.  Already,  however,  its  location  as  the  gate- 
way to  the  far  northwest,  had  given  promise  of 
its  future  greatness  as  a  business  and  shipping 
centre;  and  its  unparalleled  growth  from  1850 
on — 570  per  cent  in  twenty  years ! — was  now  vv  ell 
under  way.     The  men  who  constituted  the  first 


188      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

generation  of  settlers  in  Chicago  were  still  active 
in  the  closing  years  of  the  decade  of  the  '50s; 
most  of  them  were  still  in  the  prime  of  life.  "Not 
above  a  dozen  names  in  any  manner  conspicu- 
ously identified  with  the  city's  origin,  or  develop- 
ment to  something  over  100,000  inhabitants,  were 
missing  from  its  directory."  ^  Rude  houses, 
roughly  constructed  streets,  as  well  as  lovely  gar- 
dens and  patches  of  farm-land  here  and  there, 
betrayed  the  earlier  days  of  undeveloped  village 
life.  But  indications  of  the  city's  future  power 
in  the  conmiercial  and  political  life  of  the  nation 
were  already  present. 

Gaunt  factories  and  wholesale  warehouses, 
railway  terminals  and  shipping  centres,  grain  ele- 
vators, lumber-yards  and  stock-yards,  were  every- 
where competing  with  banks,  theatres,  hotels,  re- 
tail stores,  schools,  churches  and  public  buildings. 
The  population  was  rapidly  dividing  into  those 
diverse  social  classes,  marked  by  high-grade  resi- 
dential neighbourhoods  at  the  one  extreme  and 
wretched  slum  districts  at  the  other,  which  have 
been  the  consistent  accompaniment  of  city  life 
from  the  days  of  ancient  Rome,  if  not  much  ear- 
lier. Most  significant  of  what  was  coming,  and 
of  the  far-sighted  determination  of  the  citizens 

^See  "Bygone  Days  in  Chicago,"  by  Frederick  Francis  Cook, 
page  XIII. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  189 

of  Chicago  to  prepare  for  a  certain  future,  was 
the  gigantic  feat  undertaken  in  1855  of  raising 
the  city's  level  to  a  safe  elevation  above  the  sur- 
face of  Lake  Michigan.  Originally  only  seven 
feet  above  this  surface,  the  level  was  raised  by  sys- 
tematic endeavour  to  a  mean  height  of  fourteen 
feet.  At  the  very  time  of  Robert  Collyer's  ar- 
rival, in  February,  1859,  streets  were  being  filled 
in,  houses  raised,  and  even  the  largest  buildings 
elevated  by  means  of  jack-screws  and  placed  on 
new  foundations,  without  being  vacated  for  pur- 
poses of  residence  or  business.  This  achievement 
was  characteristic  of  a  community  which  later 
performed  the  miracle  of  making  the  Chicago 
River  run  "up-hill,"  deepened  the  channel  of  this 
petty  stream  so  that  the  largest  vessels  might  be 
towed  into  any  of  its  branches,  rebuilt  its  dev- 
astated acres  after  the  great  fire  of  1871,  and 
dreamed  the  dream,  and  made  real  the  dream,  of 
the  famed  White  City  of  1893. 

Robert  Collyer  launched  forth  upon  the  tide 
of  life  in  this  western  municipality  at  the  very 
time  when  it  was  clearing  early  obstructions,  and 
sweeping  full  and  strong  into  open  courses.  And 
be  it  noted  that  this  same  thing  was  true  of  the 
man  as  of  the  city.  Each  had  met  and  passed  the 
period  of  self -discovery.  Each  had  grown  out 
of  a  raw,  crude,  self-made  past,  was  now  living  in 


190      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

an  ardent  and  ambitious  present,  and  was  pre- 
paring to  enter  grandly  upon  a  mature  and  fruit- 
ful future.  In  equipment,  experience  and  pros- 
pect, the  man  met  the  city,  and  the  city  the  man, 
on  equal  footing.  They  were  matched  as  twins ; 
and  grew  together,  as  though  destined  by  a  sin- 
gle fate,  to  common  service  and  common  fame. 
Had  Collyer  been  free  to  choose  the  place  and 
time  of  his  advent,  he  could  have  fixed  upon  no 
more  fitting  place  than  Chicago,  and  upon  no 
more  auspicious  period  of  time  in  the  history  of 
Chicago.  The  great  days  of  the  Civil  War,  the 
stupendous  civic  developments  in  the  half-dozen 
years  following  Appomattox,  the  fiery  cataclysm 
which  opened  the  decade  of  the  '70s,  the  heroic 
and  Herculean  labours  which  marked  recovery 
from  this  disaster — these  were  all  ahead,  and  were 
to  become  the  substance  of  his  life  as  well  as  of 
the  city's.  Not  more  nearly  was  Savonarola  re- 
lated to  Florence,  or  Parker  to  Boston,  or 
Beecher  to  Brooklyn,  than  the  blacksmith  preach- 
er to  the  mid-western  metropolis.  For  a  score 
of  years,  Collyer  and  Chicago  comprised  one  tale 
upon  the  lips  of  men. 

It  was  the  First  Unitarian  Church,  as  we  have 
seen,  which  called  Robert  Coltyer  to  its  service 
in  Chicago  as  minister-at-large.  This  church,  lo- 
cated at  this  time  on  Washington  Street,  between 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  191 

Dearborn  and  Clark  Streets,  had  been  organised 
under  conditions  of  exceptional  interest  as  early 
as  1836.  In  June  of  that  year,  there  came  to  the 
frontier  town,  on  a  touring  party  with  Miss  Har- 
riet Martineau,  a  Unitarian,  Dr.  Charles  Follen, 
later  conspicuous  in  the  anti-slavery  movement  in 
Massachusetts.  "We  were  unexpectedly  detained 
over  the  Sunday  in  Chicago,"  says  Miss  Mar- 
tineau, in  her  account  of  the  visit,  "and  Dr.  Fol- 
len was  requested  to  preach.  Though  only  two 
hours'  notice  was  given,  a  respectable  congrega- 
tion was  assembled  at  the  large  room  of  the 
Lake  House,  a  new  hotel  then  building.  Our 
seats  were  a  few  chairs  and  benches  and  planks 
laid  on  trestles.  The  preacher  stood  behind  a 
rough  pine  table,  on  which  a  large  Bible  was 
placed.  I  was  never  present  at  a  more  interest- 
ing sendee,  and  I  know  that  there  were  others 
that  felt  with  me." 

On  the  29th  day  of  this  same  month,  as  an 
immediate  result  of  Dr.  Follen's  meeting,  the  few 
Unitarians  who  had  found  their  way  from  Boston 
and  other  Massachusetts  towns  to  this  far  west- 
ern outpost,  gathered  themselves  together  and 
organised  the  "First  Unitarian  Church  of  Chi- 
cago." It  was  the  sixth  church  to  be  established 
in  the  city,  being  antedated  by  Catholic,  Meth- 
odist, Baptist  and  Presbyterian  churches,  all  of 


192      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

which  had  been  founded  in  1833,  and  by  St. 
James'  Episcopal  Church,  which  was  organised 
in  1834.  It  was  also  one  of  the  earliest  Unitarian 
churches  to  be  planted  west  of  the  Hudson  River. 
Only  Cincinnati  (1830),  Louisville  (1830),  Buf- 
falo (1832),  and  St.  Louis  (1834),  preceded  it. 
For  a  short  time,  in  the  beginning,  meetings  were 
irregular  and  preachers  uncertain.  The  first  set- 
tled minister  was  Rev.  Joseph  Harrington,  who 
began  his  work  in  a  saloon  building.  He  re- 
mained until  1844,  and  "was  chiefly  instrumental 
in  securing  the  erection  of  the  modest  church  edi- 
fice on  Washington  Street."  After  him  came 
various  ministers,  most  of  whom  did  only  occa- 
sional or  supply  preaching.  But  the  church, 
while  never  large  or  popular  during  this  period, 
grew  steadily  in  members  and  in  financial 
strength.  By  1859,  it  was  ready  to  extend  its 
work,  and  to  this  end  sent  out  into  the  east  the 
call  which  summoned  Robert  Collyer  from  his 
anvil. 

The  "ministry- at-large,"  to  which  Collyer  was 
appointed  in  Chicago,  was  the  local  expression 
of  a  significant  philanthropic  undertaking  which 
had  had  its  origin  in  Boston  as  early  as  1822.  It 
was  on  October  2  of  that  year  that  Frederick 
T.  Gray,  Benjamin  H.  Greene,  Moses  Grant, 
William  P.  Rice,  and  several  other  young  men 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  198 

met  together  to  consider  the  problem  of  provid- 
ing religious  instruction  for  the  children  of  the 
poor  in  Boston.  On  November  27  following, 
these  men  organised  "The  Association  of  Young 
Men  for  their  own  Mutual  Improvement  and  for 
the  Religious  Instruction  of  the  Poor" — a  Gar- 
gantuan name  which  was  fortunately  changed 
two  years  later  to  "The  Association  for  Religious 
Improvement."  One  of  the  first  definite  enter- 
prises undertaken  by  this  society  was  the  secur- 
ing of  preaching  for  the  poor  and  those  connected 
with  no  regular  church  organisations.  In  this 
work,  the  society  had  the  co-operation  of  several 
of  the  best-known  and  most  influential  Unitarian 
clergymen  of  the  city;  but  it  was  not  until  Dr. 
Joseph  Tuckerman  signified  his  willingness  to 
devote  himself  utterly  to  this  ministry,  that  it 
assumed  a  dignity  commensurate  with  its  im- 
portance. Put  into  the  field  with  the  support 
not  merely  of  "The  Association  for  Religious 
Improvement,"  but  of  the  "American  Unitarian 
Association"  as  well,  Dr.  Tuckerman  entered  at 
once  upon  a  work  of  preaching,  visitation  of  the 
poor,  organised  relief,  study  of  social  conditions, 
that  constitutes  one  of  the  landmarks  in  the  his- 
tory of  Christian  service  in  America.  Alone,  and 
without  adequate  financial  backing,  he  visited  the 
sick,  provided  necessaries  for  the  helpless  and  de- 


194      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

serving,  secured  work  for  the  unemployed,  and 
gave  special  care  to  the  feeding,  clothing  and 
schooling  of  the  children ;  he  worked  out  and  tried 
out  methods  of  social  relief  which  blazed  the  way 
for  all  later  organised  charitable  activity ;  and,  on 
the  basis  of  personal  investigation  and  experi- 
mentation, he  established  theories  of  social  causes 
and  doctrines  of  social  change  which  anticipated 
not  a  few  of  the  accepted  principles  of  our  own 
time.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  charity 
organisation  work,  as  we  know  it  to-day,  began 
right  here;  and  here  received  that  impetus  and 
direction  which  it  has  maintained  to  the  present 
moment.  By  the  year  1840,  which  marked  the 
end  of  Dr.  Tuckerman's  epoch-making  service, 
the  charity  work  of  Boston  was  well  organised, 
the  "Benevolent  Fraternity  of  Churches"  was 
started  upon  its  way,  numerous  ministers-at- 
large  were  busy  in  the  field  in  v/hich  the  pioneer 
had  laboured  so  long  alone,  and  the  movement 
had  spread  far  and  wide  to  other  cities.  In  De- 
cember, 1836,  for  example,  a  ministry-at-large 
was  established  in  New  York,  and  filled  for  a 
time  by  William  Henry  Channing.  Others  were 
established  in  Charlestown,  Boxbury,  Salem, 
Portsmouth,  Portland,  Lowell,  New  Bedford, 
Providence,  Worcester,  and  elsewhere  in  New 
England.    With  the  aid  of  the  "American  Uni- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  195 

tarian  Association,"  the  work  was  in  due  season 
undertaken  in  Baltimore,  Cincinnati,  Louisville 
and  St.  Louis.  Chicago,  of  course,  must  follow 
suit !  Here,  therefore,  as  elsewhere,  the  ministry- 
at-large  was  established ;  and  to  its  duties  Robert 
Collyer  was  called  in  1859.^ 

What  the  new-found  minister  thought  of  his 
new  home  and  his  new  work,  is  told  in  the  letter 
to  Flesher  Bland,  dated  July  22,  1859,  a  part 
of  which  has  already  been  quoted.^ 

".   .   .  The  Ministry-at-large,"  he  writes,  "is  devoted 

to  the  poor — to  their  help   in  every  possible  way.      I 

have  a  school  for  poor  children  on  Sundays  where  I 

teach  them  all  they  can  learn  and  reward  them  with 

clothes,  shoes,  flower  seeds,  etc.     I  have  a  night  school 

in  winter,   free,   and  eight   teachers ;  a  day   school  in 

winter,  also.    Then  I  get  homes  in  the  country  for  poor 

destitute  children,  where  they  are  taught  some  useful 

craft  and  are  well  schooled  and  started  in  life.     I  get 

places  for  hopeless  men  and  women,  and  start  them  in 

life  again  after  they  have  fallen  down  in  despair.     All 

the  publicans  and  harlots  are  members  of  my  parish — 

when  all  the  churches  turn  them  out  and  they  are  lost 

to  society  I  am  here  to  help  them  to  themselves  and  to 

God.     I  visit  prisons  and  get  the  deserving,  or  those 

that  desire  to  do  well,  into  good  places  when  they  come 

*  For  the  ministry-at-large,  see  "Unitarianism  in  America,"  by 
George  Willis  Cooke,  pages  247-261. 
•See  above,  page  141, 


196      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

out,  or  if  it  is  better,  get  them  out.  No  doubt  I  am 
busy — just  as  I  sit  down  to  write  this  I  have  been  out 
(9  at  night!)  to  get  a  poor  woman  an  extension  on 
two  pawn  tickets — to  read  and  pray  with  a  young  man 
in  consumption  (preached  his  funeral  sermon  since) 
and  to  buy  meat,  bread  and  sugar  for  a  woman  quite 
sick  and  destitute,  with  a  drunken  husband.  I  am  kept 
going  by  the  Unitarian  Church,  a  very  rich  society 
for  which  I  have  been  preaching  in  the  lack  of  a  pastor 
for  eight  weeks.  I  need  not  be  other  than  a  Methodist 
to.be  their  minister-at-large,  but  I  am  from  conviction 
on  the  liberal  side.  We  have  started  a  new  church  to 
which  I  am  preaching — I  will  tell  you  more  about  it  as 
it  grows.  At  present  they  are  about  to  build  a  new 
church  and  expect  me  to  be  the  pastor.  If  to  be  that 
I  have  to  give  up  my  present  grand  field  among  the 
poor,  I  shall  think  twice  about  it,  and  not  accept  after- 
wards. 

"Now  I  have  told  you  the  worst — if  I  were  near  you 
we  should  spend  many  hours  in  grave  and  earnest  dis- 
cussion on  these  things ;  we  should  both  be  better  for 
such  discussion.  I  remember  how  much  you  were  to 
me  in  old  time ;  I  shall  not  soon  forget  that.  Do  you 
remember  your  sermon  on  the  first  resurrection,  and 
your  other  on  the  Holy  Spirit?  How  much  I  enjoyed 
them,  surely !  As  it  is,  if  I  were  near  you  I  know  your 
preaching  would  yet  be  most  welcome.  I  hear  very  lit- 
tle of  that  which  satisfies  me.  Last  night  I  went  to 
Methodist  meeting  but  it  was  no  use ;  I  must  find  in  my 
pwn  heart  and  in  all  divine  inspiration  everywhere  that 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  197 

which  I  need.  You  will  of  course  write  me,  if  it  be  only 
to  tell  me  a  piece  of  your  mind  about  my  great  Heresy. 
I  had  not  thought  about  your  being  blessed  also  with 
children.  When  I  knew  you,  you  had  been  married 
some  years  without  any ;  it  was  quite  a  surprise  for 
you  to  say  they  were  very  well,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
If  you  are  as  fond  of  children  as  I  am,  I  am  sure  it  will 
bring  endless  sunshine  to  you  to  have  them  prattling 
at  your  knee.  In  your  quiet  parsonage  how  different 
I  think  it  must  be  to  the  hurly-burly  of  this  great  west- 
em  city.  I  took  tea  one  evening  with  a  lady  yet  young 
who  remembered  when  there  was  but  a  small  settlement 
near  a  block-house.  Now  we  have  135,000  inhabitants 
and  no  end  of  building.  You  are  a  Wesleyan  from  con- 
viction, else  I  would  try  to  tempt  you  here. 

"The  pulpit  tone  is  not  high;  we  need  good,  strong 
men — a  city  growing  like  ours  needs  the  strongest. 
Chicago  stands  on  a  vast  prairie,  with  Lake  Michigan 
on  the  east  side.  The  Lake  is  its  redeeming  feature; 
there  is  little  wood  near,  and  the  ground  is  quite  low — 
indeed  the  city  is  being  raised  about  9  feet  in  some 
places,  buildings  and  all.  I  have  seen  very  large  hotels 
raised  with  all  their  inmates  just  going  on  as  usual,  and 
all  the  furniture.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  public  spirit,  a 
strong  Republican  bias.  Last  week  three  fugitive  slaves 
were  enticed  away  from  us.  There  is  much  indigna- 
tion, and  if  the  men  who  got  them  away  are  caught 
they  will  be  handled  severely.  A  sad  place  for  drink- 
ing; about  1200  saloons  are  in  full  blast.  I  see  a  great 
deal  of  the  sin  from  my  position — it  is  at  times  very 


198      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

disheartening,  but  I  know  I  am  doing  good,  so  shall 
*learn  to  labour  and  to  wait.'  I  was  never  quite  satis- 
fied with  merely  preaching  to  those  who  are  only  theo- 
logically bad,  but  always  longed  to  get  at  some  genuine 
sinners,  some  lost  sheep.  I  am  in  the  midst  of  them 
now. 

"If  I  could  come  to  your  house  how  much  I  should 
ask  you  about  the  country  you  left  so  long  after  me. 
How  my  friends  in  Pennsylvania  used  to  be  interested 
in  what  I  could  tell  them  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  coun- 
try. I  think  she  stands  far  above  all  other  writers  of 
fiction  (female)  except  Mrs.  Stowe  in  the  estimation 
of  all  I  have  met  here.  I  do  not  like  all  her  pictures, 
far  less  Mrs.  Gaskell's,  in  the  'Life.'  That  I  constantly 
rebuked.  Of  course  I  said  I  knew  Addingham  better 
than  Mrs.  G.  The  Surgeon,  if  it  was  Mr.  Duck- 
worth, was  as  unfair  as  possible,  and  the  whole  tone  of 
the  book  is  unfair  to  life  in  Yorkshire.  Dear  old  York- 
shire, grim  and  smoky,  green  and  lovely,  wild  moors 
and  rocks  and  mountains,  sweet  valleys  and  dales  and 
uplands,  how  I  see  it  3'et.  I  read  as  ever  pretty  much 
all  that  comes  in  my  way. 

"My  wife  has  been  all  I  could  wish,  a  faithful,  true 
wife  and  mother.  She  also  finds  Methodism  not  possi- 
ble to  her.  I  rather  tried  to  have  her  stay  in  the 
church,  but  she  follows  me  as  I  follow  Christ. 

"Try  to  sketch  a  picture  of  Ilkley  Chapel  the  last 
time  you  were  there,  who  sat  where,  who  is  living,  who 
gone  home  to  heaven.  And  of  Bradley,  too — I  heard  no 
good  news   of  Thomas  Lister — I  think  it  was  in  the 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  199 

Mercury  I  saw  the  account.  Can  you  remember  a  Rich- 
ard Hannam,  and  tell  me  whether  he  is  yet  living? 
What  did  you  call  that  queer  preacher;  was  it  Myers? 
I  think  there  were  two  brothers.  He  had  horses  and 
carts,  perhaps  a  farm,  certainly  a  tremendous  bump 
of  self-esteem.  Is  he  alive?  You  see  I  speak  to  you  as 
if  you  had  just  left.  And  John  Dobson,  my  old  dear 
friend ;  I  have  had  letters  from  him  pretty  constantly. 
Does  he  look  much  older?  'Becca'  Batty,  is  she  still 
there,  and  has  rum  killed  George?  Mrs.  Parrat  and 
Margaret  just  the  same,  I  suppose,  Margaret  hardly 
married  yet. 

"But  I  must  close.  Do  not  put  yourself  about,  but 
whenever  you  write,  your  letter  will  be  as  welcome  as 
sunshine.  Speak  your  whole  mind  freely,  remember;  I 
date  my  conversion  from  one  of  your  sermons — and 
believe  me,  dear  friend, 

"Ever  yours  most  sincerely, 

"Robert  Collyer. 

"P.  S. — Mother  and  myself  unite  heartily  in  love  to 
Mrs.  Bland  and  the  children.  Mrs.  Bland  remembers 
me,  I  am  sure.  I  remember  her  quiet  kindness — have 
many  a  time  thought  of  her.  Is  the  old  man,  her  father, 
yet  alive,  with  his  never-ceasing  flow  of  fun  and  wis- 
dom? I  think  I  saw  how  he  was  retired  at  Skipton. — 
How  do  you  think  he  will  manage  to  get  along  in  heaven 
without  cracking  jokes! — R.  C."  * 

*  In  an  earlier  letter  dated  July  8,  1859— the  first  of  the  Flesher 
Bland  correspondence — he  gives  us  the  interesting  item  of  infer- 


200      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

It  is  evident,  from  this  very  personal  account 
of  his  hfe  at  this  early  time,  that  Robert  Collyer 
was  "in  his  element,"  so  to  speak,  in  this  service 
of  the  poor.  "I  can  remember,"  writes  his  eldest 
son,  Samuel,  in  a  personal  statement,  "how  much 
interest  he  took  in  his  work  as  minister-at-large." 
It  appealed  irresistibly  to  those  native  instincts 
of  sentiment  and  affection  which  were  always  so 
predominant  a  part  of  his  being.  Whether  seated 
in  his  office  at  the  First  Church  on  Washington 
Street,  or  walking  the  streets  of  the  poor  districts 
in  visitation  of  his  people,  or  teaching  by  day  or 
by  night  in  his  mission  schools,  he  was  always  the 
same  radiant  and  heartsome  man.  "It  was  wel- 
come work,"  not  only  for  him  but  for  the 
"mother"  also.  And  this  was  fortunate,  for  work 
of  this  kind  was  a  twenty-four-hours-a-day  task- 
ing, and  must  centre  quite  as  much  in  the  home 
as  in  the  street  or  office.  In  fact,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  ]Mrs.  Collyer  was  carrying  the 
heavy  end  of  the  burden.  The  men  and  women 
brought  in  for  relief  were  invariably  dirty,  and 
frequently  diseased;  and  children,  picked  up  as 
waifs  in  the  street,  were  always  swarming  about. 
But  Mrs.  Collyer  had  abundant  sympathy  and 

mation  that  he  has  "a  salary  of  $1200  a  year,  and  perhaps  $600 
more  from  other  sources,  so  I  am  well  to  do,  as  also,  I  believe, 
useful." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  201 

"spunk,"  and  rebelled  only  when  demands  be- 
came utterly  impossible.  One  story,  told  almost 
apologetically  in  "Some  ISIemories,"  sheds  a  flood 
of  light  upon  what  must  have  been  the  service 
of  this  devoted  couple.  One  day,  he  says,  he  was 
besought  to  lend  a  hand  to  a  poor  girl  who  had 
been  left  to  die  in  a  black  corner  of  the  slum.  He 
found  her  promptly,  and  discovered,  as  he  had 
anticipated,  that  she  was  "as  we  say,  'a  lost 
woman.'  "  Where  to  put  her  was  a  problem,  for 
refuge  for  a  member  of  this  outcast  tribe  there 
was  none  in  the  city.  In  his  home  that  evening, 
the  minister-at-large  unburdened  himself  of  his 
worry.  "Can  you  do  anything?"  he  said.  And 
then,  after  a  silence,  there  came  the  brave  answer, 
"There  is  only  one  thing  we  can  do:  we  have  a 
spare  room,  we  must  take  her  in."  It  was  not 
easy — but  it  was  done.  For  a  full  month,  the 
unhappy  prostitute  was  nursed  by  tender  and 
loving  hands,  and  at  last  was  restored  to  health. 
And  then — unhappy  woman,  indeed! — she  left 
the  friendly  home  "with  no  thanks,"  and  returned 
to  her  familiar  haunts.  "She  had  no  tears,"  says 
the  Doctor,  "to  shed  at  the  feet  of  the  holy  one 
of  God,  or  box  of  ointment  to  break." 

Service  in  such  a  field  as  this  was  welcome,  but 
it  was  not  destined  to  continue  in  any  such  direct 
and  exclusive  way  as  Robert  Collyer,  and  those 


202      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

who  called  him  to  Chicago,  had  anticipated  when 
he  came.  For  this  man,  while  an  ardent  lover  of 
his  kind,  and  therefore  a  happy  and  successful 
pastor,  was  also  a  preacher;  and  the  preacher  in 
him  was  not  to  be  denied  at  the  new  work  in  the 
mission  any  more  than  it  had  been  denied  at  the 
old  work  by  the  forge.  Almost  immediately  on 
his  arrival,  he  found  himself  in  a  pulpit;  within 
a  few  months,  as  the  July  22nd  letter  to  Flesher 
Bland  has  told  us,  he  was  preaching  with  some 
frequency  at  the  First  Church  and  had  in  pros- 
pect a  regular  preaching  task  at  a  new  church 
just  then  being  organised;  and  from  this  time  on 
to  the  end  of  his  many  days,  held  undisputed  his 
throne  of  spiritual  sovereignty.  Nothing,  indeed, 
in  all  our  tale  is  more  impressive  than  the  phe- 
nomenal rise  of  this  rude,  unlettered,  untrained, 
freshly-converted  blacksmith  to  a  position  of 
potent  leadership  in  the  liberal  pulpit  of  his 
adopted  country,  just  as  nothing  is  more  inter- 
esting than  the  chain  of  circumstances  which  led 
him  step  by  step,  and  at  last  bound  him  for  good 
and  all,  to  this  high  office. 

The  first  opportunity  to  preach  came  on  the 
second  Sunday  after  Robert  Collyer  reached  Chi- 
cago, through  a  courteous  invitation  from  Rev. 
George  A.  Noyes,  the  pastor  of  the  First  Church, 
and  therefore  his  superior  officer.    The  new  min- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  203 

ister-at-large  had  reported  to  "Brother  Noyes — 
for  this  he  was"  at  once  upon  his  arrival  and  was 
given  a  hearty  welcome  to  home  and  parish.  The 
invitation  to  preach  was  a  part  of  this  greeting — 
and  a  noble  part,  for  Collyer  was  fresh  from  the 
anvil,  and  a  minister  appointed  not  for  the  par- 
ishioners but  for  the  poor.  The  sermon,  spoken 
in  fear  and  trembling  of  heart,  from  the  text, 
"They  joy  before  thee  according  to  the  joy  in 
harvest,"  was  one  which  had  done  service  on  the 
Methodist  circuit  in  Pennsylvania.  The  preach- 
ing of  it  in  this  strange  city,  and  before  this  cul- 
tured and  presumably  critical  audience  of  Uni- 
tarians, was  a  trying  ordeal,  of  which  the  Doctor 
remembered  only  in  later  years  that  "there  was 
no  such  help  from  on  high  as  that  which  came  .  .  . 
on  the  moorside  and  in  the  small  schoolhouse." 
Always  anxious  and  even  timid  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, Robert  Collyer  was  undoubtedly  the 
victim,  on  this  first  appearance  in  a  Chicago 
pulpit,  of  extreme  embarrassment  and  self- 
consciousness,  which  pretty  effectually  precluded 
that  joyous  freedom  of  utterance  which  comes 
to  the  true  preacher  as  a  veritable  impartation 
of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Nothing  however  could  hide 
the  gifts  with  which  this  remarkable  man  was 
dowered.  "He  did  not  know  (the  Unitarian) 
ways.    He  was  right  from  the  anvil.    His  hands 


204      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

were  horny.  That  burr  and  brogue  was  still 
cleaving  to  his  tongue.  The  smoke  and  grime  of 
the  forge  was  on  him."  But  there  also  were  the 
glorious  head,  the  handsome  face,  the  huge  stat- 
ure, the  ringing  voice,  the  winsome  smile,  the 
earnestness,  the  sincerity,  the  simplicity,  the 
sweet  human  charm,  which  were  as  native  to  his 
person  as  heather  to  the  Yorkshire  moors.  The 
members  of  the  congregation  were  gracious  in 
their  reception  of  the  new  minister-at-large. 
Many  in  after  years  would  tell  how  they  still  re- 
membered this  first  sermon,  and  thus  give  best 
evidence  of  the  sound  impression  which  it  had 
made  upon  them.  And  an  event,  or  series  of 
events,  which  transpired  almost  immediately 
thereafter,  of  large  consequence  first  to  Robert 
Collyer  himself  and  secondly  to  the  whole  cause 
of  liberal  religion  in  America,  showed  how  far 
he  had  come  from  anything  even  remotely  re- 
sembling failure  on  this  occasion. 

Very  shortly  after  Collyer's  arrival  in  Chicago, 
Dr.  Noyes  announced  his  decision  to  resign  the 
pulpit  of  the  First  Church  and  return  to  the 
East.  Earnest  efforts  were  made  to  retain  so 
admirable  a  preacher  and  pastor,  but  they  were 
quite  in  vain.  Dr.  Noyes  persisted,  and  the  pul- 
pit, therefore,  was  soon  left  without  an  occupant. 
Arrangements  were  at  once  made  to  secure  "sup- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  205 

plies"  from  that  base  of  all  Unitarian  supplies, 
Boston;  and  a  succession  of  ministers,  some  of 
them  the  leaders  in  the  Unitarian  ranks  of  that 
day,  were  received  and  heard.  Edmund  Hamil- 
ton Sears,  author  of  famous  Christmas  hymns, 
Horatio  Stebbins,  successor  of  Starr  King  and 
prophet  for  many  years  in  his  own  right  in  San 
Francisco,  Dr.  Charles  H.  Brigham,  James  W. 
Thompson,  George  W.  Briggs,  and  others  only 
less  distinguished,  were  among  those  who  came, 
some  of  them  for  a  month  at  a  time.  To  listen 
week  after  week  to  the  preaching  of  these  able 
and  scholarly  men  was  to  the  heretic  from  the 
Methodist  circuit  about  Shoemakertown,  an  ex- 
perience as  valuable  as  it  was  delightful.  It  was 
like  the  watching  of  the  flight  of  the  mother- 
bird  by  the  frightened  and  awkward  fledgling  in 
the  nest.  He  had  known  nothing  like  it  since  the 
days  when  he  had  first  sat  at  the  feet  of  Dr.  Fur- 
ness  in  Philadelphia.  These  men,  as  the  Doctor 
himself  well  described  it,  "were  (his)  theological 
school,"  so  far  at  least  as  his  training  for  Unitar- 
ianism  was  concerned ;  and  what  he  learned  from 
their  example  in  ways  of  thought  and  forms  of 
utterance,  would  be  difficult  to  estimate.  No  pic- 
ture in  Dr.  Collyer's  life  is  more  attractive  than 
that  of  the  shy  and  yet  ardent  new  minister-at- 
large  sitting  in  the  pews  of  the  First  Church  Sun- 


206      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

day  after  Sunday,  and  drinking  in  the  words  of 
these  visiting  clergymen  as  though  he  had  never 
tasted  of  living  water  before — unless  it  be  the 
companion  picture  of  the  old  man  in  later  years 
recording  reverently  and  gratefully  the  impor- 
tance of  this  experience  in  the  making  of  his  life.^ 
But  it  was  not  all  a  matter  of  listening!  The 
distance  from  Boston  to  Chicago,  measured  in 
terms  of  hours  and  not  of  miles,  was  much 
greater  in  those  days  than  it  is  to-day.  Not  in- 
frequently as  a  result,  the  visit  of  one  minister 
failed  to  follow  directly  upon  that  of  his  prede- 
cessor, and  more  than  once  the  interval  between 
departure  and  aiTival  included  a  Sunday.  All  of 
which  might  very  well  have  "come  to  pass,  that 
it  might  be  fulfilled  w^hich  was  spoken  through 
the  prophet"  in  far-away  Ilkley!  "They're  going 
to  make  a  spare  rail  of  thee.  They'll  put  thee 
into  every  gap  there  is."^  For,  commended  to 
the  people  by  his  first  sermon  of  which  w^e  have 
spoken,  and  named  by  Dr.  Noyes  himself  in  his 
parting  words  as  the  man  who  could  take  the 
services  when  the  pulpit  was  vacant,  Robert 
Colly er  was  invariably  asked  to  preach  on  these 
occasions  when  the  next  distinguished  visitor 
from  the  East  had  not  arrived.    It  was  a  happy 

"See  "Some  Memories,"  pages  101,  102. 
'  See  above,  page  92. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  207 

privilege  which  fortune  thus  placed  in  his  way. 
But  it  was  also  a  test  which  few  uneducated  lay- 
preachers  would  have  welcomed  or  could  have 
met.  Robert  Collyer,  however,  did  not  flinch. 
He  entered  the  pulpit  of  the  First  Church  in 
Chicago  as  detenninedly  as  he  had  set  foot  on 
the  Liver^DOol  packet  for  the  voyage  to  America; 
and  in  the  former  case  as  in  the  latter,  both  ven- 
tures into  new  worlds,  he  held  his  own  and  saw 
the  thing  through !  '^ 

How  truly  this  was  the  case,  is  indicated  by  the 
invitation  which  now  came  to  him  to  preach  reg- 
ularly in  the  pulpit  of  a  second  Unitarian  church, 
recently  established  in  another  part  of  the  city. 

"Gallia  est  omnis  divisa  in  partes  tres,"  writes 
Julius  Cgesar,  in  the  first  sentence  of  his  "De 
Bello  Gallico  Comment arii."  What  was  true  of 
ancient  Gaul  is  similarly  true  of  modem  Chicago. 
This  is  a  three-sided  city — the  South  Side,  the 
West  Side,  and  the  North  Side.  It  was  on  the 
South  Side  which  was  then,  as  it  is  now,  the 
centre  of  the  municipality,  that  the  First  Uni- 
tarian Church  had  been  planted  in  1836,  and 
was  now  in  1859  happily  thriving.  The  land  on 
which  its  edifice  was  reared  had  been  received  as 
a  free  gift  from  the  city  in  the  '40s;  and  with  it 
had  gone  the  proviso  that  if  Unitarian  societies 

'  See  above,  page  103. 


208      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

were  organised  on  the  West  and  North  Sides 
within  a  certain  definite  period  of  time,  they 
should  each  have  a  quarter  share  of  the  original 
grant.^ 

In  order  to  take  advantage  of  this  condition,  as 
well  as  to  anticipate  the  already  apparent  shift- 
ing of  the  residential  population  from  South  to 
North,  a  second  Unitarian  society  was  projected 
as  early  as  1857.  It  was  on  May  11  of  this 
year,  that  the  first  formal  meeting  for  purposes 
of  organisation  was  held  in  the  office  of  William 
M.  Larrabee,  treasurer  of  the  Galena  and  Chi- 
cago Railroad.  Ten  persons,  in  addition  to  Mr. 
Larrabee,  were  present,  as  follows — Benjamin 
F.  Adams,  Eli  Bates,  Nathan  Mears,  Gilbert 
Hubbard,  Samuel  S.  Greeley,  William  H. 
Clark,  Henry  Tucker,  George  Watson,  Augus- 
tus H.  Burley,  and  Edward  K.  Rogers.  Good 
Yankee  names  these,  indicative  of  the  origin  and 

^  So  Dr.  Collyer  states  in  his  "Some  Memories,"  page  104. 
Samuel  Greeley,  in  his  "Historical  Sketch  of  Unity  Church,"  gives 
a  somewhat  different  version,  as  follows:  "Largely  through  the 
representations  of  the  late  Artemus  Carter,  the  principle  was 
adopted  by  (the  First  Church)  that  the  property  owned  by  it  was 
a  trust  held  for  the  spread  of  Unitarian  Christianity— to  be 
equitably  divided  between  itself  and  new  churches  in  the  North 
and  West  divisions,  if  such  should  be  founded  within  a  reasonable 
period."  In  any  case,  when  the  project  of  a  church  on  the  North 
Side  was  broached,  the  First  Church  voted  on  April  27,  1857,  to 
assign  one-quarter  of  its  land  to  the  credit  of  the  new  movement. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  209 

character  of  the  stock  from  which  the  constitu- 
ency of  mid-western  Unitarianism  in  these  days 
was  drawn!  Adjourned  meetings  of  a  slowly- 
enlarging  group  were  held  from  time  to  time; 
but  no  definite  action  was  taken  until  December 
23,  1857,  when  a  constitution  was  adopted,  the 
name  Unity  Church  selected,  and  the  following 
persons  chosen  to  be  trustees — William  M.  Lar- 
rabee,  Benjamin  F.  Adams,  Josiah  L.  James, 
and  Samuel  S.  Greeley,  secretary. 

Thus  was  the  history  of  Unity  Church  begun. 
A  year  and  a  half  were  yet  to  pass,  however, 
before  this  history  was  to  be  anything  more  than 
a  bare  record  of  organisation.  Reluctance  to 
withdraw  from  the  First  Church  a  considerable 
portion  of  its  people,  difficulty  in  arranging  for 
a  suitable  meeting-place  on  the  North  Side,  the 
practical  impossibility  of  raising  funds  for  any 
new  movement  of  this  kind  in  the  days  following 
the  panic  of  1857,  were  some  of  the  reasons  for 
delay.  But  no  one  of  these  was  perhaps  so 
baffling  as  the  problem  of  settling  a  minister. 
The  little  group  had  made  a  brave  try  to  secure 
the  services  of  Thomas  Starr  King,  then  in  Bos- 
ton, but  had  failed;  and  similar  failures  had  fol- 
lowed upon  succeeding  endeavours  which  they 
ventured  to  make  in  other  directions.  Under 
such  circumstances  it  is  not  surprising  that  at  last 


210      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

they  contented  themselves  with  merely  effecting 
an  organisation,  and  waiting,  not  unlike  Mr. 
Micawber,  for  "something  to  turn  up." 

The  "something"  materialised,  after  a  not  too 
long  interval,  in  the  person  of  Robert  Collyer. 
Pending  the  real  beginning  of  their  own  move- 
ment, the  residents  of  the  North  Side  were  keep- 
ing their  membership  in,  and  attending  the  ser- 
vices of,  the  First  Church.  In  the  period  follow- 
ing the  retirement  of  Dr.  Noyes,  they  listened  on 
occasion,  as  we  have  seen,  to  the  preaching  of  the 
newly-arrived  minister-at-large.  Little  by  little, 
as  they  came  to  know  him  and  to  enjoy  his  ser- 
mons, the  "North- Siders"  began  to  wonder  with- 
in themselves  why  this  man  would  not  serve 
them,  for  a  "starter"  at  least,  in  the  pulpit  of 
Unity  Church.  No  sooner  wondered  than  said 
— no  sooner  said  than  done!  A  meeting  was 
called,  in  which  it  was  resolved  to  hold  services 
of  worship  without  delay.  A  committee  con- 
sisting of  Edward  K.  Rogers,  Artemus  Carter, 
Jerome  Beecher,  and  Josiah  L.  James,  was  ap- 
pointed to  arrange  the  details  of  separation 
from  the  First  Church.  A  little  wooden  Baptist 
church,  located  at  the  corner  of  Dearborn  Ave- 
nue and  Ohio  Street,  was  rented  for  a  meeting 
place.  And  Robert  Collyer  was  asked  to  take 
charge  of  the  pulpit.     It  was  understood  upon 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  211 

both  sides  that  he  was  to  come  merely  as  a  "sup- 
ply," to  see  what  could  be  done.  If  the  meetings 
proved  successful,  a  church  edifice  would  be 
built  and  a  man,  properly  endowed  and  edu- 
cated, called  to  the  pastorate.  Collyer  was  to 
be  recognised  as  primarily  the  minister-at-large 
of  the  First  Church,  and  thus  simply  borrowed 
for  the  purposes  of  this  experiment. 

There  can  be  no  question  that  every  fibre  of 
Robert  Collyer' s  being  strained  to  the  acceptance 
of  this  invitation,  and  his  assent,  therefore,  was 
promptly  given.  One  serious  worry,  however, 
tinctured  the  joy  of  his  experience — that  con- 
cerning the  attitude  of  Mrs.  Collyer.  She  had 
accepted  his  withdrawal  from  INIethodism  with- 
out complaint,  as  we  have  seen.  She  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  Chicago,  and  was  now  happily  at 
work  in  the  activities  of  the  ministry-at-large. 
At  this  new  turn  of  affairs,  she  had  consented 
readily  enough  to  his  preaching  regularly  for  the 
people  on  the  North  Side.  But  she  had  never 
abandoned  her  dear  old  mother  church — certainly 
had  never  intimated  her  conversion  to  the  gospel 
of  Unitarianism.  Could  she  now  go  with  her 
husband  Sunday  after  Sunday  to  hear  him 
preach  the  truth  as  it  came  to  him  full  and  free, 
or  must  he,  for  the  first  time  in  their  married 
life,  go  his  way  alone  ?    Tender  as  always  for  his 


212      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

wife's  entire  happiness  and  freedom,  Collyer  ab- 
solved her  from  all  necessity  of  allegiance. 
"Please  do  not  go  with  me  one  step  farther,"  he 
said,  "if  you  do  not  feel  free  to  do  so,  but  stay 
in  the  old  church."  She  made  no  answer  to  this 
word,  for  her  answer  had  been  given  years  ago 
under  the  stars  that  shone  down  upon  the  York- 
shire bracken.  Before  the  preacher  was  ready 
for  the  first  service  on  the  warm  spring  Sunday 
afternoon,  she  was  standing  in  the  living-room  of 
the  home,  "hat  on,  gloves  on,"  resolved  as  before, 
and  always,  to  go  whither  he  should  go.  It  was 
the  last  great  act  of  consent  in  the  life  of  hus- 
band and  wife.  "We  went  together  hand  in 
hand,"  is  the  Doctor's  joyful  record,  "through 
the  thirty  years  which  remained"! 

This  first  service  was  held,  and  the  first  ser- 
mon^ preached,  on  the  last  Sunday  in  May, 
1859.  Like  all  those  which  followed  it  for  a 
period  of  seven  months,  it  was  conducted  in  the 
afternoon.  "I  can  see  it  in  my  eyes  as  it  was 
then,"  recalled  Robert  Collyer  in  after  years,  "the 
little,  pleasant  room,  a  congregation  smaller  than 
the  room,  by  far ;  the  faces  of  the  men  and  women 
I  only  knew  by  sight  as  yet,  and  hardly  that.    A 

®  "Mr.  Collyer  writes  that  his  text  was  Revelation  XXII:  17, 
and  that  the  sermon  was  a  stupid  one." — Samuel  Greeley^  in  "His» 
torical  Sketch  of  Unity  Church." 


fa 
pq 
o 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  213 

comical  little  organ,  too  small  again  for  the  small 
congregation.  The  singing  of  as  good  intention 
I  am  sure  as  ever  was  heard;  and  the  preaching 
only  to  be  mentioned  for  these  reasons,  that  it 
was  the  first  fair  chance  at  a  free  pulpit  the 
preacher  had  found,  that  he  had  sought  for  it 
with  many  tears,  that  he  occupied  it  with  a  sore 
misgiving  that  there  never  would  be  another  ser- 
mon after  this  in  hand,  and  that  everything  was 
borne  by  that  little  flock  with  the  sweetest  pa- 
tience, and  adorned  out  of  their  hearts  with  a 
grace  that  never  was  in  the  thing  itself."  Rob- 
ert Collyer  did  the  bulk  of  the  preaching,  al- 
though not  infrequently  the  visiting  minister  at 
the  First  Church  was  invited  to  take  an  after- 
noon, or  some  special  preacher  from  out  of  town 
was  secured  for  a  Sunday  or  two.  From  the  be- 
ginning, the  new  movement  prospered.  The  lit- 
tle Baptist  church  had  a  seating  capacity  of  only 
250,  and  this  was  soon  well  filled.  The  neigh- 
bourhood was  growing  with  great  rapidity,  and 
new  families  therefore  constantly  being  added  to 
the  parish  list.  Within  a  month,  the  sponsors  of 
Unity  Church  had  cast  aside  their  doubts  and 
fears.  By  mid-summer  they  had  decided  to  erect 
a  church  home  of  their  own.  On  August  20,  a 
lot  was  purchased  at  the  corner  of  Chicago  Ave- 
nue and  Dearborn  Street.    Building  operations 


214      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

were  begun  immediately,  and  carried  through 
with  promptitude.  A  modest  structure/^  erected 
at  a  cost  of  only  $4000,  stood  completed  by  the 
end  of  December,  and  "amidst  the  furious  cold 
and  snow  of  Christmas  eve"  was  formally  dedi- 
cated at  a  special  service,  at  which  Dr.  George 
W.  Hosmer,  of  Buffalo,  preached  the  sermon. 
Great  was  the  rejoicing  of  the  people,  and  many 
the  felicitations  which  poured  in  upon  them  not 
only  from  Unitarians  but  from  other  denomina- 
tions as  well. 

With  this  happy  and  speedy  accomplishment 
well  behind  him,  Robert  Collyer  prepared  to  lay 
down  his  work  with  the  people  of  Unity  Church. 
Signs  were  not  now  lacking  that  they  were  want- 
ing and  expecting  him  to  remain  as  their  pastor, 
but  he  felt  sincerely  that  his  work  with  them  was 
done.  Their  society  was  organised,  their  build- 
ing erected,  their  congregation  gathered — every- 
thing was  now  ready  for  the  new  and  properly 
trained  minister,  of  whom  so  much  had  been  said 
in  the  beginning.  Furthermore,  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  Collyer  was  still  at  this  time  pri- 
marily the  minister-at-large  of  the  First  Church, 
and  anxious  therefore  to  get  back  to  his  work 
among  the  city's  poor.  During  all  of  the  sum- 
mer and  early  winter  months,  he  had  tried  his 

"It  provided  "about  450  sittings." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  215 

best  to  serve  the  two  masters,  and  although  he 
had  done  this  without  any  bad  results  to  himself 
— "so  far  as  I  remember,"  he  says,  "I  was  never 
tired" — he  felt  that  his  work  in  the  field,  if  not 
in  the  pulpit,  had  inevitably  suffered.  The  dual 
arrangement  could  not  continue  indefinitely — 
and  here  apparently  was  the  very  time  "nomi- 
nated in  the  bond,"  so  to  speak,  for  him  to  return 
to  the  work  which  he  had  come  to  the  city  to  dis- 
charge. Therefore  on  a  certain  week-day  eve- 
ning, directly  after  the  dedication  of  the  new 
building,  he  asked  the  trustees  of  Unity  Church 
to  come  together,  told  them  that  the  task  which 
he  had  undertaken  to  achieve  for  them  was  done, 
pointed  out  the  pressing  nature  of  his  duties  as 
minister-at-large  on  the  South  Side,  and  asked 
to  be  relieved  of  all  further  responsibility  to 
them.  He  oiFered  to  lend  a  hand  at  Unity,  as 
at  the  First  Church,  whenever  there  was  need 
of  assistance,  but  his  whole  time  must  hence- 
forth be  devoted  to  his  ministry-at-large. 

To  the  end  of  his  days  Dr.  Collyer  recalled, 
with  vast  amusement,  the  unfeigned  dismay  of 
the  people  when  they  heard  his  proposal.  It  is 
true  that  they  had  asked  him  to  preach  in  the 
beginning  only  that  the  "North-Siders"  might 
make  experiment  of  holding  regular  services  in 
their  neighbourhood ;  and  then,  when  this  experi- 


216      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

ment  seemed  to  justify  itself,  had  engaged  him 
to  occupy  the  pulpit  only  until  "some  well-ac- 
credited man"  could  be  found  for  permanent 
settlement.  But  all  this  had  been  decisively 
driven  out  of  mind  by  the  great  success  which 
the  minister-at-large  had  achieved  as  a  preacher. 
"Some  of  us  whose  heads  now  bear  the  frosts  of 
early  winter,"  says  Samuel  Greeley  in  his  "His- 
torical Sketch  of  Unity  Church,"  "but  who  were 
then  overflowing  with  youthful  enthusiasm  for 
the  new  enterprise,  still  remember  how  our  feel- 
ing of  anxious  responsibility  for  the  initial  effort 
of  an  unknown  man  gave  way,  first  to  relief, 
then  to  surprise,  and  finally  to  joyful  certainty 
that  the  'hour  and  the  man'  had  come,  and  that 
a  new  moral  force  had  suddenly  risen  among  us ; 
that  an  unheralded  champion  had  stepped  into 
the  lists  with  level  lance,  to  oiFer  wager  of  battle 
for  mental  and  spiritual  freedom."  To  allow 
this  man  now  to  retire,  at  the  very  moment  when 
his  work  was  finding  permanent  foundations,  was 
regarded  as  preposterous.  It  was  he  who  had 
gathered  and  now  held  the  congregation  on  the 
North  Side.  It  was  for  him  and  this  congrega- 
tion of  his  making  that  the  new  church  building 
had  been  reared.  It  was  in  him  and  his  promise 
of  fame  and  influence  that  the  people  placed 
their  hopes  of  future  happiness.    Unity  Church 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  217 

was  his,  and  he  must  take  the  office  of  its  minister. 
"I  was  therefore  called,"  he  says,  "in  the  regular 
way." 

By  this  unexpected  action  on  the  part  of  the 
North  Side  Unitarians,  Colly er  was  brought  face 
to  face  with  a  serious  problem.  He  was  of  course 
delighted  by  such  recognition  of  his  worth  as  a 
man  and  minister;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  he  was  eager  to  accept.  Combined  with  the 
native  shyness  of  his  being,  which  always  came 
to  the  fore  at  just  such  times  as  this,  however, 
were  certain  sound  reasons  for  hesitation.  First 
of  all  was  the  matter  of  his  obligation  to  the 
people  of  the  First  Church,  who  had  brought  him 
to  Chicago  less  than  a  year  before  to  serve  as 
their  minister-at-large.  Then  there  were  the  un- 
escapable  questions  as  to  his  own  fitness  for  the 
task.  He  had  only  just  left  behind  him  the  forge 
and  hammer  of  the  smithy.  He  had  had  no  train- 
ing for  the  professional  ministry,  not  even  so 
much  as  a  good  common  school  education.  Such 
preaching  as  he  had  done,  had  been  to  poor,  un- 
lettered folk  like  himself,  and  correspondingly 
very  unlike  the  cultured  men  and  women  who 
occupied  the  pews  of  Unity.  His  very  words, 
as  they  fell  from  his  uncouth  Yorkshire  tongue, 
betrayed  him  for  what  he  was — a  peasant  immi- 


218      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

grant,  strangely  strayed  from  proper  and  accus- 
tomed waj^s  of  life! 

All  this — honest  man  that  he  was! — Robert 
Collyer  made  known  to  his  friends  in  Unity 
Church.  He  kept  nothing  from  them,  either  of 
fact  or  fancy;  and  when  they  scoffed  at  his  mis- 
givings, and  insisted  that  they  wanted  him  and 
not  another  man,  he  hesitated  still.  The  question 
as  to  his  duty  to  the  First  Church  was  quickly 
and  easily  settled,  for  it  was  arranged  that  he 
should  continue  as  minister-at-large,  retaining 
the  responsible  supervision  of  the  work,  and 
passing  over  the  routine  labour  to  assistants.  The 
question  as  to  his  personal  qualifications  for  the 
work  was  more  bothersome.  Finally,  after  much 
discussion,  it  was  proposed  by  the  confident  and 
eager  congregation  that  the  matter  be  submitted 
to  any  group  of  clergymen  whom  Collyer  might 
name  for  counsel.  The  hesitant  minister  con- 
sented to  this,  named  Dr.  Eliot,  of  St.  Louis, 
Dr.  Hosmer,  of  Buffalo,  Dr.  Bellows,  of  New 
York,  and  Dr.  James  Freeman  Clarke,  of  Bos- 
ton, and  submitted  to  them  his  problem.  With 
one  consent  they  answered  that  he  must  take  the 
church,  and,  without  further  ado,  he  entered  as 
an  obedient  servant  upon  his  duties. 

It  was  thus,  in  January,  1860,  that  Dr.  Coll- 
yer began  his  more  than  half-century's  service 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  219 

as  a  Unitarian  clergyman.  Quite  in  accord 
with  the  traditional  indifference  of  Unitarians 
to  the  forms  and  ceremonies  of  organised  reli- 
gious life  was  the  failure  of  the  people  of  Unity 
Church  to  ordain  and  install  their  new  minister. 
In  after  years  Dr.  Collyer  amused  himself  more 
than  once  by  chiding  them  for  their  neglect  of 
the  rightful  prerogatives  of  his  high  office.  "I 
never  was  installed,"  he  wrote  at  one  time.  "No- 
body (at  Unity)  thought  of  it,  and  I  didn't  care 
to  push  it."  Samuel  Greeley,  the  historian  of 
Unity  Church,  makes  frank  confession  of  sin  in 
this  regard,  pleading  only  that  the  church  "must 
be  forgiven  if,  in  its  youthful  haste  to  begin  its 
work  for  humanity,  it  entirely  forgot  to  perform 
the  ceremony  which  the  Christian  world  has, 
time  out  of  mind,  held  to  be  the  decent  and  fit- 
ting prelude  to  the  union  of  a  pastor  with  his 
people."  But  little  damage  was  done,  least  of 
all  to  Robert  Collyer.  If  formal  recognition  he 
must  have,  it  had  come  to  him  in  abundance  and 
beauty  at  a  meeting  of  the  Western  Unitarian 
Conference  at  Milwaukee  in  the  spring  of  1859. 
There  he  had  been  welcomed  by  "the  brethren" 
with  open  arms,  and  made  to  submit  to  ordina- 
tion. Asked  no  impertinent  questions  as  to 
what  he  believed,  given  no  embarrassing  instruc- 
tions as  to  what  he  should  preach  or  practice,  he 


220      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

was  simply  received  into  the  goodly  fellowship 
of  free  souls  in  the  sweet  old  way,  familiar 
through  many  generations  to  those  reared  in  the 
Congregational  order.  Rev.  A.  D.  Mayo 
preached  the  sermon,  and  Dr.  Hosmer,  of  Buf- 
falo, laid  on  the  hands  of  blessing.  Clear  in 
Collyer's  mind  at  the  moment,  although  he  said 
nothing  about  it,  was  the  memory  of  that  fateful 
hour  long  ago,  when  he  received  ordination  at 
the  hands  of  the  good  old  farmer  on  the  York- 
shire moor.  This  second  ordination  could  not 
supersede  that  first  great  dedication  to  the  Most 
High.  But  it  was  welcome  as  a  kind  of  fulfil- 
ment of  what  was  then  so  well  begun. 

Now  came  weeks  and  months  of  toil,  excite- 
ment and  abounding  joy.  I  doubt  if  Robert 
Collyer  was  ever  more  radiantly  happy  than  in 
the  year  1860.  Unity  Church  was  the  whole  of 
his  life.  Nothing  else  held  any  attraction  for 
him.  Thus,  he  was  hardly  well  set  to  his  new 
task,  when  there  came  to  him  from  the  Western 
Unitarian  Conference  an  invitation  to  take 
charge  of  an  attractive  and  important  mission- 
ary field  in  the  West.  This  was  one  of  a  series 
of  such  invitations  in  these  early  years,  which 
show  what  native  genius  he  brought  to  his  work 
as  a  minister,  and  how  quickly  this  genius  was 
recognised  by  his  fellows.    His  reply  in  this  case 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  221 

was  immediate  and  decisive,  as  witness  a  letter 
under  date  of  August  15,  1860,  to  M.  D.  Con- 
way: 

*^Dear  brother: 

"Your  circular  letter  asking  me  to  take  the  promis- 
ing missionary  field  now  open  to  us,  came  to  hand  duly. 
I  had  already  received  one  signed  by  H.  W.  Bellows, 
J.  F.  Clarke,  N.  A.  Staples,  and  J.  W.  Mumford,  urg- 
ing me  to  hold  on  where  I  was.  Such  good  letters  from 
friends  on  both  sides  are  very  encouraging.  I  feel 
that  I  am  over-rated,  but  that  is  not  of  my  seeking,  so 
I  do  not  feel  bad  at  it.  But  I  must  repeat  what  I  said 
to  you  verbally — at  present  I  must  not  leave  Chicago ! 
It  would  never  do  to  tear  out  all  the  delicate  tendrils 
that  have  come  about  me  from  hearts  opening  out  from 
the  winter  of  a  formal  Unitarianism  into  the  spring  of 
a  simple  godly  life.  (This  is  between  you  and  me!) 
If  I  saw  none  of  this,  I  should  see  nothing  to  stay  for 
but  hard  duty,  but  I  see  it  aU  around.  Hard  lawyers 
and  editors  let  me  know  in  a  round-about  way  how  I 
have  touched  their  hearts.  'I  thank  you  most  deeply 
for  what  you  are  doing  for  my  husband,*  a  lady  said 
to  me  more  than  a  thousand  miles  from  Chicago.  This 
is  all  round,  and  I  dare  not  tear  it  away.  I  know  the 
argument  some  would  use,  but  you  won't — *it  is  trust- 
ing in  an  arm  of  flesh  then' — and  I  deny  it.  The  words 
that  help  them  are  not  mine,  but  the  words  of  the  Father 
which  sent  me.  If  I  should  ever  feel  as  I  did  when  I 
left  my  old  Yorkshire  home,  and  again  when  I  left  Penn- 


222      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

sylvania,  I  will  not  hesitate,  but  go  out.  It  would  be 
at  my  peril  that  I  stayed  then.  I  think  Abraham  would 
have  mighty  soon  regretted  it,  if  he  had  not  moved 
west  every  time  he  felt  he  must.  I  shall  wait  for  that 
weight  of  reason,  instinct  and  inspiration  which  no  wise 
man  ever  thinks  of  resisting  any  more  than  the  fledg- 
ling of  this  summer  thinks  of  resisting  the  mysterious 
impulse  that  carries  him  out  of  the  coming  winter  be- 
fore the  first  frost  has  touched  a  flower.  I  trace  much 
of  our  loss  in  life  to  resisting  this  spirit  of 
truth  .  .  ." 

Robert  Collyer  was  plainly  as  much  in  love 
with  his  people  as  they  were  with  him.  It  was 
of  course  a  day  of  small  things  at  Unity,  cer- 
tainly as  compared  with  those  that  came  after. 
It  is  reported,  for  example,  that  "the  annual 
deficit  (of  the  church)  of  two  hundred  dollars 
or  so  seemed  as  frightful  as  the  deficit  which 
dragged  down  France  to  a  bloody  revolution  and 
her  king  to  the  scaffold."  But  to  the  ardent 
minister,  now  a  settled  preacher  in  his  own  right 
for  the  first  time,  with  pulpit,  church  and  people 
that  he  could  call  his  own,  all  things  were  great, 
at  least  as  challenges  to  his  ambition  and  sources 
of  his  joy.  There  was  the  exhilaration  of  the 
morning  services,  with  their  congregations 
quickly  swelling  to  the  capacity  of  the  little 
$4000    structure.      There   were    the   wrestlings 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  223 

with  the  problem  of  the  Sunday  school,  the  anx- 
ious hunt  for  children,  and  the  sweet  word  of 
assurance  dropped  casually  one  day  into  the  ear 
of  her  over-hasty  pastor  by  a  wise  if  youthful 
matron,  "Be  patient,  Mr.  CoUyer.  We  are 
young  folks  here  in  Unity.  Give  us  time,  and 
you'll  have  children  enough."  Then  there  was 
the  new  organ,  presided  over  by  William  Wat- 
son and  George  Fergus,  the  former  at  the  key- 
board and  the  latter  at  the  bellows.  The  installa- 
tion of  this  instrument  was  a  great  event,  for,  in 
the  little  rented  church  on  Dearborn  Street,  and 
for  a  time  in  the  new  building,  the  music  con- 
sisted of  congregational  singing  accompanied 
only  by  a  flute  "tastefully  played,"  we  are  told, 
by  a  young  bookseller,  Augustus  H.  Burley  by 
name.  Memorable  was  the  struggle  over  the 
creed,  proposed  by  those  who  felt  that  no  church, 
not  even  a  Unitarian  church,  was  complete  with- 
out one.  The  endeavour  to  write  out  a  simple 
statement  of  faith  which  should  be  satisfactory 
to  all  members,  was  sincere  and  prolonged;  but 
it  failed,  as  all  such  attempts  are  doomed  to  fail 
in  the  case  of  those  who  have  heard  the  call  of 
the  free  spirit.  "Our  belief  was  too  inclusive 
to  be  imprisoned  in  words,"  writes  one  member, 
"and  we  gave  it  up.  The  one  point  on  which  we 
all  agreed  was   that  all  might  differ."     And 


224      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

lastly,  as  no  single  isolated  event,  but  as  a  con- 
stant experience  of  the  days  and  weeks,  was  the 
preaching!  This  was  the  centre  of  the  church's, 
as  it  was  of  the  minister's,  life.  Congregations 
were  crowded  because  people  loved  to  give  ear 
to  Robert  Collyer's  simple  eloquence,  and  feel 
the  impact  of  his  fresh  and  unspoiled  personality. 
And  Robert  Collyer  was  thus  eloquent  and  mag- 
netic, because  the  presence  of  listening  throngs 
kindled  his  heart  and  touched  his  lips  as  though 
with  fire.  He  was  too  much  a  lover  of  his  kind 
and  of  the  world's  work  to  begrudge  any  task 
of  these  early  days,  or  to  miss  gladness  in  any 
kind  of  experience;  but  the  sermon  in  the  pulpit 
on  Sunday  morning  was  before  all  things  else 
the  crowning  joy  of  every  week. 

Activities  such  as  these  in  Unity  were  absorb- 
ing, but  beyond  his  parish  other  duties  awaited 
him  these  days.  Thus  as  we  have  seen,  he  was 
still  minister-at-large  for  the  First  Church,  and 
remained  so  until  the  spring  of  1862.  He  had 
a  well-trained  woman  as  his  assistant  in  this 
work,  but  it  was  of  course  inevitable  that  some 
of  the  routine  labour,  much  of  the  worry,  and 
practically  all  of  the  responsible  administration, 
should  still  be  his.  As  time  went  on,  he  found 
it  impossible  to  continue  in  this  twofold  rela- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  225 

tionship ;  but  for  the  present  at  least  he  laboured 
with  joy  in  both  vineyards. 

Then  on  occasion  there  were  calls  to  wider 
fields  of  service  which  his  compassionate  spirit 
refused  to  leave  unanswered.  In  June  of  1860, 
for  example,  a  great  cyclone  swept  the  state  of 
Iowa.  The  Chicago  Board  of  Trade  promptly 
organised  a  relief  committee ;  money  in  generous 
amount  was  raised;  and  Colly er  was  appointed 
field  agent  to  carry  succour  to  the  stricken  area, 
and  administer  it  for  the  benefit  of  the  sufferers. 
That  Dr.  Collyer  is  right  in  suggesting  that  it 
was  his  position  as  minister- at-large  in  the  com- 
munity which  commended  him  to  the  committee 
for  this  responsible  post,  is  undoubtedly  true. 
But  it  may  not  be  amiss  at  this  distance  to  sug- 
gest that  there  were  other  and  higher  factors  in- 
volved in  his  selection,  and  that  these  furnish  very 
tangible  evidence  indeed  of  the  place  which  he 
had  won  for  himself  in  the  public  life  of  Chicago 
in  a  period  of  something  less  than  one  year  and 
a  half.  Straight  to  the  wind-swept  sections  of 
Iowa  he  went,  struck  the  cyclone's  path  at  Ca- 
manche,  and  there,  taking  wagon,  followed  the 
dreadful  trail  westward  to  Cedar  Rapids.  The 
memories  of  this  adventure — of  shattered  homes, 
devastated  fields,  broken  bodies,  scattered  fam- 
ilies, sudden  poverty — stayed  with  him  for  many 


226      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

a  long  year.  He  told  the  tale  to  his  congrega- 
tion on  the  Sunday  following  his  return;  and  a 
half-century  later  he  set  down  vivid  stories  of 
these  days  and  nights  in  his  autobiography. 

Two  letters  to  Flesher  Bland,  dated  respec- 
tively March  28,  1860,  and  February  1,  1861, 
furnish  interesting  first-hand  commentary  on 
these  early  months  in  the  Unity  Church  pastor- 
ate. It  is  to  be  noted  that  "dear  Brother  Bland," 
as  he  is  addressed  in  these  letters,  is  still  disturbed 
at  Collyer's  defection  from  Methodism,  and 
warm  with  the  desire  to  recover  him  to  the  true 
fold  as  a  kind  of  "lost  sheep."  As  usual  in  such 
cases,  the  protestations  and  appeals  only  call 
forth  reaffirmations  of  the  new  faith,  gentle  in 
this  case  always,  but  none  the  less  stalwart. 

"Chicago,  March  28/60. 
*^Dear  Brother  Bland: 

"Pray  do  not  think  I  have  forgotten  your  kind  letter 
any  more  than  you  forget  mine — I  have  at  least  one 
letter  in  my  desk  for  you  which  was  half  done  weeks 
ago,  put  by  in  a  hurry  and  never  resumed.  Perhaps 
I  shall  finish  this. 

"I  wish  sometimes  I  had  your  fine  country  quiet  and 
leisure  when  I  should  get  time  to  think  and  write  more. 
I  heard  from  a  young  man  who  called  on  us  from  you 
(and  we  were  very  glad  to  see  him)  that  you  lived  in 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  227 

a  beautiful  place,  and  I  remember  Mrs.  Bland  had  the 
way  to  make  the  inside  of  home  look  well.  No  one  could 
have  done  much  for  the  outside  of  the  one  you  lived  in 
at  Addingham.  So  I  suppose  you  really  do  get  a  good 
deal  of  beauty  and  goodness  with  your  daily  bread  to 
cheer  you.  Well,  so  do  I — but  it  is  city  life  after  all, 
and  Ilkley  was  the  biggest  town  I  ever  lived  in  before 
this  Chicago ;  and  I  do  sometimes  long  to  hear  perfect 
stillness  but  never  do  for  five  minutes  together.  Yet 
I  am  here  and  you  there  surely  by  the  Grace  of  God. 
I  remember  poor  old  Jim  Delves  prayed  over  me, 
*Lord,  if  thy  presence  go  not  with  him  carry  him  not 
up  hence,'  and  I  think  the  prayer  has  not  failed.  When 
Lot  turned  toward  the  plain  there  must  have  been  some 
remote  touch  to  his  soul  beside  the  freedom  of  the  will. 
May  not  these  unconscious  touches  that  determine  us 
sometimes,  we  hardly  know  how,  be  over  all  God,  blessed 
f orevermore .?  I  remember  you  quoted  the  words  'Sir, 
we  know  we  are  free  and  that  settles  it,'  when  I  once 
asked  about  that  puzzle  of  the  free  will  (you  did  not 
tell  me  it  was  Johnson,  you  rogue)  and  I  let  it  rest 
there  a  good  while,  but  I  have  thought  at  times  that 
God  has  other  ways  than  our  own  choice  to  keep  us 
in  some  remote  way  in  the  traces  of  his  grand  ultimate 
purpose.  I  should  really  be  very  wicked  if  I  believed 
he  was  not  King  of  Kings.  Well,  so  it  is  and  you  must 
think  of  that  whenever  you  remember  what  you  call 
my  perversion.  If  I  had  come  out  of  the  Unitarian  into 
your  church,  what  would  you  have  called  it  then,  my 


228      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

dear  fellow?  It  is  a  long  way  through  the  whole  reason 
for  all  these  things ;  they  rest  with  him  who  is  our  life. 

"Since  I  wrote  you  I  have  been  jogging  along  with 
my  work.  I  sent  you  our  printed  report  the  other  day 
which  will  tell  you  one  part  of  my  work;  the  other 
part  is  my  new  church.  I  was  called  in  regular  form 
over  the  parish  at  the  New  Year  and  after  some  hesi- 
tation accepted.  There  was  an  express  condition  that 
I  should  devote  all  needful  time  to  the  ministry-at-large 
and  give  the  church  one  service  each  Sunday.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  call  and  resolutions — there 
never  was  anything  more  handsome.  They  are  a  fine 
people.  The  church  is  paid  for,  I  have  now  a  salary 
of  two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Of  course  I  am  very 
busy  but  I  am  hearty  and  strong.  My  old  Yorkshire 
oatmeal  constitution  is  a  capital  thing.  I  hope,  please 
God,  to  do  a  good  spell  of  work  before  I  die.  That  will 
not  prevent  me  from  insuring  my  life,  though,  and  so  I 
shall  do  so  for  $5000  this  spring.  Have  you  insured 
yours  ? 

"We  are  having  a  fine  open  spring — to-day  it  is  as 
warm  as  early  simimer,  and  I  have  had  a  long  solitary 
walk  by  the  shore  of  the  Lake  up  to  the  cemetery.  It 
did  me  good  as  it  always  does  to  get  near  the  breast  of 
our  great  Mother  and  feel  her  strong,  warm  pulses  in 
my  own  blood.  During  the  present  winter  I  have  had 
some  little  leisure;  I  study  one  sermon  a  week,  steady, 
and  so  need  some  time  to  read  and  think  up.  My  church 
is  largely  made  up  of  men  and  women  of  education ;  edi- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  229 

tors,  lawyers,  etc.,  and  I  should  not  do  them  any  good 
if  I  did  not  keep  ahead.  But  it  is  not  so  hard  as  I  ex- 
pected. They  pay  me  far  more  compliments  than  I  have 
any  idea  I  deserve. 

"I  get  all  your  papers  and  I  hope  you  get  all  mine — I 
sent  you  a  number  of  LittelPs  Limng  Age  that  con- 
tained an  article  on  the  West  Riding;  I  hope  you  got 
that,  because  I  shall  often  want  to  send  you  a  number 
of  that  journal  when  it  prints  something  I  know  you 
will  like  to  see.  The  Christmas  papers  were  for  the 
children,  to  whom,  with  Mrs.  Bland,  give  my  best  love. 
I  hope  when  you  move  it  will  be  into  a  larger  sphere ;  I 
have  no  idea  of  your  burying  your  talent  in  a  La  Cheete 
napkin,  if  you  have  made  good  time  these  ten  years. 
You  are  too  good  a  preacher  for  them.  I  got  your  ser- 
mon ;  it  had  the  old  ring  with  it,  and  did  me  good  be- 
cause it  was  yours,  more,  I  am  afraid,  than  because  it 
had  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus.  All  you  print  I  will 
read,  though,  and  never  fail  to  be  better  for  it.  When 
you  get  a  no.  of  the  New  Covenant  there  will  be  some 
poor  thing  in  it  over  R.  C.  from  me.  I  sent  Mary  Hud- 
son a  copy  of  the  report :  poor,  dear  Mary.  Bye  the 
bye,  did  you  ever  know  Alice  Bolton,  a  niece  of  the 
Beanlands,  and  what  came  of  her.?  I  had  a  most  intense 
May-day  attachment  for  her  once,  but  am  afraid  she 
did  not  do  well.  (I  write  this  in  my  study.)  The 
Cornhill  Magazine  comes  here  and  is  a  capital  ven- 
ture, 128  pages,  equal  in  every  way  to  Blachwoody 
with  two  good  engravings,  for  a  shilling.     It  will  make 


230      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

a  revolution  in  those  things  in  time.  The  New  York 
Independent  that  I  send  sometimes  is  about  to  publish 
some  articles  on  Methodism  that  will  be  interesting.  I 
shall  send  some  to  you. 

"The  Methodists  have  two  most  magnificent  churches 
here  and  several  plainer  ones.  There  is  one  right  across 
the  street.  I  went  in  one  night  but  did  not  make  any 
real  sense  of  the  man,  so  went  no  more.  John  Baker 
was  on  the  circuit  when  I  left ;  I  perceive  he  has  taken 
great  hold  upon  you — what  an  earnest  young  fellow  he 
was.  I  have  picked  him  out  in  papers  pretty  much  ever 
since  and  find  he  is  getting  up.  George  Steward  went 
out  from  you.  The  plan  was  interesting;  some  of  the 
names  I  remember  very  well  as  preachers ;  some  I  sup- 
pose are  dead,  among  whom  that  poor  consumptive  fel- 
low who  was  such  a  good  'Leader.'  I  had  a  capital 
class  a  long  time  in  Penna.  and  always  enjoyed  it.  Had 
a  most  loving  letter  from  an  old  class  mate  to-day. 

"Will  you  travel  this  summer .?  Have  you  seen  Niag- 
ara? I  think  I  shall  go  there.  I  would  like  to  come 
to  you  but  it  is  so  far.  Certainly  some  day  I  will  come 
to  your  place  if  I  live.  I  hope  to  go  home  in  '6S  if 
all  be  well.  I  want  to  see  my  poor  old  mother  once 
more  in  the  flesh,  as  we  call  it.  How  poor  is  our  faith: 
how  is  it  we  cannot  feel  certain  that  the  transcendent 
beauty  which  will  clothe  us  in  the  spirit  will  be  far 
more  exceeding  the  beauty  of  this  time  in  form  and 
spirit.  We  never  feel  sure  of  the  future,  yet  forever 
it  opens  out  better  even  than  our  hopes ;  'And  we  smile 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  231 

to  think  God's  greatness  flows  around  our  incomplete- 
ness ;  round  our  restlessness,  his  rest.' 
"Dear  friend,  good-bye, 

"Ever  truly  yours, 

"ROBEUT    CoLLYER. 

"I  have  begun  Greek ! !" 


"Chicago,  Feb.  1st,  1861. 
*^Dear  Brother  Bland: 

"Reading  just  now  how  De  Quincey  sometimes  left  his 
letters  unanswered  for  months  reminded  me  in  some  way 
of  you,  and  how  I  ought  at  once  to  answer  your  good 
letter  of  long  ago,  so  no  time  will  be  so  good  as  this 
dull,  plashy  night  when  'I  can't  get  out,'  to  pay  my 
devoirs  to  you.  We  are  all  well,  thank  God  for  that; 
the  baby  (Annie)  grows  hugely,  is  now  near  9  months 
old,  and  has  got  4  teeth.  The  other  three  are  well,  so 
am  I,  so  is  Mother;  our  life  jogs  on  quietly.  I  have 
plenty  to  do  and  plenty  of  robust  health  to  do  it.  The 
winter  is  my  busy  time  and  keeps  me  full  handed.  This 
winter  we  have  3  schools  open  and  I  have  done  a  good 
deal  for  the  poor — and  a  good  deal  for  Kansas — and 
my  people  tell  me  I  have  preached  the  best  sermons 
they  ever  heard,  so  you  may  well  believe  I  will  hardly 
fail  to  be  spoiled.  Sure  enough,  my  church  is  filling. 
The  income  now  pays  more  than  the  outgo,  and  what 
is  better,  I  have  round  me  some  of  the  very  best  and 
truest  men  and  women  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  E.  C. 
Larned,  who  made  the  great  defence  of  the  Ottawa  res- 


232      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

cuers — the  men  who  took  a  fugitive  from  the  officers 
and  got  him  away  to  Canada — he  has  come  in  lately. 
I  am  so  glad  to  see  such  men  round  my  pulpit.  I  feel 
that  I  must  try  to  be  true  to  the  great  cause  of  free- 
dom w^th  a  more  perfect  truth  before  such  critics. 

"Now  let  us  have  a  chat.  Poor  Dave  Lister  has  come 
to  that,  poor  fellow.  Well,  it  is  terrible,  and  must  be 
terrible  for  his  poor  wife,  for  she  was  a  noble  woman 
and  well  deserved  a  far  better  husband  than  ever  Dave 
was.  He  was  the  type  of  what  I  understand  by  the 
word  Atheist ;  casting  back  in  my  memory,  I  can  never 
remember  to  have  heard  him  utter  one  word  or  do  one 
deed  in  all  the  time  I  knew  him  that  would  give  the  pulse 
one  beat  faster  in  a  minute ;  never  knew  him  care  a  pin 
for  divine  things  or  give  any  hint  that  he  ever  felt  any 
sense  of  the  ever  present  God.  I  hope,  poor  fellow, 
he  is  not  clean  gone.  I  owe  him  nothing  but  one  warm 
shake  of  the  hand  just  as  I  came  away  and  what  I 
am  sure  was  a  real  wish  for  my  welfare,  but  that  is 
a  good  thing  to  remember  and  made  me  feel  more  sorry 
for  his  fall.  His  son  Harry  must  be  a  young  man  by 
this  time ;  his  sister  Harriet  was  my  first  devotion.  And 
poor  old  Hobs  on  is  dead — dead  as  his  verses.  Unmar- 
ried and  alone,  no  Becca  Batty  ever  made  him  the  happy 
man  he  fain  would  have  been.  I  have  not  known  many 
men  whose  inner  history  was  more  pathetic  than  that  of 
poor  old  Hob. 

"Do  you  know  I  was  at  Montreal  last  summer  for 
about  an  hour  but  totally  unable  to  branch  off  to  La 
Cheete.'*     It  was  about  the  middle  of  July  and  I  was 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  233 

on  my  way  to  Portland  on  urgent  business  requiring 
haste.  I  enquired  which  way  La  Cheete  lay  and  would 
fain  have  made  a  pilgrimage  to  that  place  but  had  no 
chance.  I  was  so  much  pleased  with  the  country  about 
there  that  I  have  thought  I  would  spend  my  vacation 
about  Canada  East  if  I  am  spared  until  the  next  sum- 
mer. I  mean  to  ask  Gardner  of  Montreal  to  exchange 
for  the  whole  vacation.  I  have  some  of  his  old  members 
in  my  parish  here  and  they  will  be  right  glad  to  have 
him  come  to  see  them  and  to  entertain  him.  Perhaps 
I  may  fix  it  that  way;  if  so  it  will  be  real  pleasant  and 
give  him  a  good  time  at  Hemingford. 

"I  got  those  ponderous  paragraphs  about  Martineau 
and  about  Universalism.  My  dear  fellow,  these  things 
are  an  old  song.  No  man  can  believe  more  deeply  than 
I  do  that  repentance  is  the  indoor  to  salvation,  that 
if  we  are  not  saved  we  must  perish.  But  I  rejoice  also 
in  the  belief  that  he  whose  mercy  endureth  forever,  who 
ruleth,  whatever  that  may  mean,  is  not  going  to  be  cir- 
cumvented, and  lose  into  perdition  the  souls  he  has 
created.  If  he  made  them  to  lose  them  that  is  another 
thing.  No  letter  of  the  Bible  can  weigh  for  a  moment 
with  the  ponderous  fact  that  God  is  our  Father.  I 
regret  as  much  as  Martineau  that  we  have  as  yet  not 
much  noble  fruit  of  literature  but  he  ought  to  remember 
that  we  are  but  in  the  March  days  of  our  year  yet.  Still 
we  have  some  noble  things  to  show  already.  And  when 
our  church  has  gone  into  its  ripe  autumn  as  yours  has, 
we  also  shall  have  good  fruit  to  show  in  abundance. 
Besides,  your  best  hymns  are  just  what  we  want.     My 


234.      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

service  book  has  lots  of  good  Methodist  hymns  in  it 
and  we  never  tire  of  singing  them.  But  here  is  an 
Evening  Hymn  by  a  dear  personal  friend  of  my  own, 
one  of  our  ministers  that  'needeth  not  to  be  ashamed.' 

•Slowly  by  God's  hand  unfurled 
Down  around  the  weary  world 
Falls  the  darkness — O  how  still 
Is  the  working  of  his  will. 

Mighty  spirit  ever  nigh. 
Work  in  me  as  silently; 
Veil  the  day's  distracting  sights, 
Show  me  heaven's  eternal  lights. 

Living  stars  to  view  be  brought 
In  the  boundless  realms  of  thought. 
High  and  infinite  desires 
Flaming  like  those  upper  fires. 

Holy  truth,  eternal  right. 
Let  them  break  upon  my  sight; 
Let  them  shine,  serene  and  still, 
And  with  light  my  being  fill.' " 

"Best  love  to  all, 
"Good-bye. 

"Ever  your  true  friend, 

"Robert  Collyee." 

So  the  days  jogged  on — happy  days,  and 
troublous  days  too,  for  the  minister  of  Unity 
Church,  glad  and  proud  as  he  was  in  his  work, 

"This  is  printed  here   exactly   as   it  appears   in  Dr.   Collyer's 
letter.    Several  variations  from  the  approved  version  will  be  noted. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  235 

and  marvellously  successful  withal,  was  not  with- 
out besetting  anxieties. 

Conspicuous  among  these,  as  the  above  epistles 
clearly  indicate,  was  the  constant  worry  as  to  his 
ability,  as  a  good  shepherd,  to  lead  and  feed  his 
flock.  Many,  if  not  most,  of  his  parishioners, 
were  men  and  women  of  breeding,  culture,  and 
noble  character.  They  were  born  of  the  deep- 
rooted  stock  of  colonial  New  England,  educated 
in  academies  and  colleges,  and  were  leaders  of 
light  and  learning  in  the  community.  In  more 
ways  than  one  the  people  of  Unity,  like  the  peo- 
ple of  the  First  Church,  were  "the  pick"  of  Chi- 
cago's business,  social  and  cultural  life.  And 
here  at  their  head  was  a  rude  blacksmith  from 
the  English  midlands,  who  could  not  count  a 
sum  total  of  two  years'  education,  whose  tongue 
still  carried  the  thick  "burr"  of  peasant  dialect, 
whose  pen  still  halted  at  the  spelling  of  such 
words  as  "Illinois,"  "friends,"  and  "prairie,"  ^^ 
and  whose  ways  must  have  been  in  many  details 
not  the  ways  of  those  he  served.  This  discrep- 
ancy was  obvious  enough — and  it  acted  not  only 
as  a  challenge  but  as  a  source  of  recurring  worry 
and  embarrassment.  Both  moods  are  reflected 
in  a  letter  under  date  of  March  5,  1861,  addressed 

"  "Illisnois,"  "freinds"  and  "praire"  are  the  spellings  in  these 
early  letters. 


236      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  "my  dear  friend,"  Wirt  Dexter.  It  is  evident 
that  his  correspondent  had  communicated  to  him 
some  suggestions,  and  perhaps  admonitions, 
anent  his  preaching.  In  answer,  Robert  Coll- 
yer  writes: 

"I  have  received  and  read  your  letter  with  the  deep- 
est gratitude.  When  God  wants  to  make  a  man  feel 
how  much  he  loves  him,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  always 
gives  him  just  such  a  friend  as  you  are,  with  a  large 
heart  and  brain,  and  frank,  free,  fearless  tongue,  whose 
friendship  is  ever  as  true  for  correction  as  for  encour- 
agement. If  anything  more  is  needed  to  help  me  strive 
to  be  my  best  self  beside  the  present  promptings  of  the 
divine  spirit,  it  is  just  such  kind,  strong  words  as  you 
speak  to  me.  I  think  exactly  those  things  are  needful, 
because  I  have  the  most  woful  sense  of  being  stupid 
very  often,  and  very  seldom  any  idea  that  I  am  other- 
wise. You  have  heard  me  say  from  the  pulpit  perhaps 
that  I  feel  unequal  to  the  work  of  speaking  to  the  men 
and  women  of  Unity  Church,  who  I  believe  to  be  by  all 
odds  the  very  foremost  among  religious  thinkers  in  this 
city.  I  feel  this  at  times  so  acutely  that  I  should  feel 
more  gladness  than  grief  at  my  dismissal.  .  .  ." 

Then  follows  in  this  letter  a  long  paragraph 
in  which  he  tells  the  story  of  his  life,  as  a  kind 
of  explanation  of  his  feelings,  and  of  wistful 
pleading  that  he  may  not  have  "done  so  badly." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  237 

At  the  close,  most  appropriately,  comes  the  call 
for  help. 

"I  shall  be  grateful,"  he  writes,  "if  you  will,  as  the 
thing  occurs  to  you,  note  some  fruitful  books  of  the 
sort  you  mention  that  I  may  read  to  some  profit.  I 
am  aware  of  a  rather  narrow  range.  I  have  not  read 
so  much  in  American  history  as  I  ought  to  and  will  do. 
I  shall  be  glad  if  you  can  save  me  prospecting,  I  have 
so  little  time,  and  help  me  strike  a  lead  at  once  when 
I  do  dig.  And  now,  dear  friend,  let  me  thank  you 
again,  and  do  not  count  these  confidences  egotistic — 
never  let  them  interfere  with  your  most  flat-footed  re- 
buke, where  you  see  occasion.  God  knows  I'm  not  the 
man  I  should  be,  but  when  I  get  hold  of  such  a  man 
as  you  I  feel  like  trying  to  be  so  that  I  may  be  worthy 
of  your  friendship.  I  value  that  friendship  all  the  more 
and  ever  shall  do  for  its  clear,  strong  insight,  and  I  try 
to  keep  before  me  the  words  of  a  good  old  Quaker  to 
me  when  I  came  here.  'Robert,  do  not  try  to  be  great, 
but  to  do  thy  duty.  If  thee  does  that,  thee  will  be  as 
great  as  thee  can  be.'  " 

Sermons  were  an  especial  trial  at  this  time. 
In  all  of  his  preaching  as  a  Methodist  circuit- 
rider,  in  this  country  as  well  as  in  England,  he 
had  followed  the  leadings  of  the  free  spirit. 
Never  once  had  he  committed  a  sermon  to  man- 
uscript, and  then  read  it  to  his  congregation. 


238      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

When  called  upon  to  face  the  Unitarian  audi- 
ences of  Chicago,  however,  a  different  method, 
for  mere  safety's  sake  if  nothing  more,  seemed 
advisable.  He  still  did  not  write,  for  his  labours 
as  minister-at-large  left  him  no  time  for  this 
kind  of  preparation.  But  he  fell  very  soon  into 
the  habit  of  making  notes  on  a  half-sheet  of 
writing-paper  in  outline  or  skeleton  form;  and 
sometimes  on  the  basis  of  these  notes,  writing  out 
the  sermon  in  full  a  few  days  after  its  delivery. 
The  famous  discourse,  "How  Enoch  Walked 
with  God,"  was  thus  developed  into  the  first 
manuscript  which  Dr.  Collyer  ever  owned.  From 
this  the  transition  to  writing  and  reading  ser- 
mons as  a  regular  homiletical  method  was  easy, 
and  in  this  case,  perhaps,  inevitable.  In  a  let- 
ter to  Flesher  Bland,  dated  June,  1861,  he  says: 

"I  read  my  sermons  almost  entirely.  I  have  to.  I 
seldom  get  done  writing  before  bed-time  Saturday  even- 
ing, and  do  not  like  to  commit  them  to  memory.  I  can- 
not help  the  writing  and  reading.  There  is  not  any 
chance  for  the  man  who  stands  in  such  a  pulpit  as  this 
of  mine  where  the  hearers  are  full  of  intelligence, 
wide-awake,  entirely  intolerant  of  tautology  and  repe- 
tition, demanding  that  you  stand  abreast  of  them  at 
least,  if  not  ahead.  To  extemporise  would  be  to  fail. 
You  would  find  it  out  even  in  your  churches  in  a  great 
city.  .  .  ." 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  239 

Timidity  of  a  very  natural  kind  undoubtedly  had 
its  part  in  this  decisive  change  of  pulpit  method. 
But  a  sense  of  duty — a  consciousness  of  what  he 
owed  himself,  his  people  and  the  high  cause  to 
the  service  of  which  he  had  been  called — was  the 
really  decisive  factor.  That  Dr.  Collyer  was 
wise  in  thus  abandoning  extempore  delivery  is 
unquestionable.  Nothing  less  than  the  stern 
discipline  exacted  by  setting  words  carefully  to 
paper,  could  have  developed  him  into  the  potent 
orator  which  he  later  became.  Throughout  the 
remainder  of  his  days,  on  lecture-platform  as 
well  as  in  pulpit,  his  manuscript  was  always  be- 
fore him;  and  those  which  have  been  preserved 
to  us  reveal  with  what  ease,  in  course  of  time,  he 
came  to  write,  and  wdth  what  skill  he  learned  to 
mould  the  grace  and  power  of  the  spoken  word. 
The  sudden  change  at  this  period  in  the  char- 
acter of  CoUyer's  work,  the  strain  and  excite- 
ment of  his  labours,  and  the  high  conscientious- 
ness of  all  his  endeavours,  combined  at  times  to 
throw  him  into  fits  of  indescribable  depression. 
There  was  "more  fear  than  faith"  a  good  part 
of  the  time,  and  a  real  struggle  therefore  to  hold 
the  pace.  At  such  moments  "Father"  Furness 
in  Philadelphia  was  "a  refuge  and  strength"; 
Flesher  Bland  in  distant  Canada  a  never-failing 
help;  and  nearer  friends,  like  Wirt  Dexter  for 


240      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

example,  genuine  sources  of  good-cheer.  Noth- 
ing availed  so  much,  however,  as  the  trust  and 
love  of  Mrs.  Collyer.  She  was  instantly  to  the 
rescue  with  a  word  of  rebuke,  a  summons  to 
courage,  or  a  gentle  caress,  as  each  particular 
crisis  in  her  husband's  experience  seemed  at  the 
moment  to  demand.  One  very  beautiful  story, 
set  down  in  "Some  Memories,"  must  here  be  re- 
peated. "One  day,"  he  writes,  "when  fear  held 
me  fast,  (I)  said,  'Mother,  I  think  it  was  a  mis- 
take all  round.  In  a  year  from  now,  I  shall  not 
have  a  word  to  say.  It  will  be  dropping  buckets 
into  empty  wells.'  She  must  have  been  busy  and 
did  not  want  to  be  bothered  with  my  moods,  for 
I  see  her  turn  to  me  with  something  in  her 
hand  she  was  still  doing,  and  she  says,  *Don't 
bother  me  with  such  nonsense!  Yours  is  not  a 
cistern:  it  is  a  living  spring.  Keep  it  running 
clear  and  deepen  your  well  when  you  must,  and 
you  will  have  more  to  say  in  a  year  from  now 
than  you  have  ever  had  before  in  your  life.'  " 

A  true  word,  bravely  spoken!  Here  indeed, 
in  the  great  heart  of  this  Englishman,  was  a  liv- 
ing fountain  of  pure  spiritual  life.  There  was 
some  choking  and  roiling  at  the  start,  no  doubt. 
But  in  a  surprisingly  short  time  the  spring  was 
flowing  sweet  and  clear  and  full.     The  tides 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  241 

were  free — the  swelling  stream  had  found  its 
course. 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  things  for  Robert 
CoUyer  in  Chicago  and  in  the  Unitarian  minis- 
try. No  one  event  of  all  the  story  is  particularly 
impressive,  but  the  sum  total  of  achievement  in 
these  months  is  little  less  than  miraculous.  We 
have  only  to  compare  the  Methodist  heretic  just 
fresh  from  the  Shoemakertown  forge,  in  Febru- 
ary, 1859,  with  the  full-fledged  minister  of  Unity 
Church  in  January,  1860,  to  marvel  at  the  dis- 
tance travelled  and  the  height  attained  in  so  short 
a  period  of  time.  Chance,  of  course,  had  its 
place  in  this,  as  in  every  such,  event.  But  in  the 
last  analysis  it  was  the  native  quality  of  the  man 
which  really  counted.  The  discovery  of  Robert 
Collyer  was  as  sure  and  swift  in  Chicago  as  in 
Ilkley,  and  by  the  cultured  townsmen  of  Illinois 
as  by  the  uncouth  dalesman  of  Yorkshire. 
Greatness  of  soul  was  as  conspicuous  with  him 
as  bigness  of  body.  He  could  be  as  little  hidden 
spiritually  as  physically.  Wherever  he  was — at 
the  anvil,  on  the  moorside,  in  the  pulpit — he 
bulked  large,  loomed  high,  shone  with  beauty, 
and  thus,  like  some  rough-hewn  but  verdant 
mountain,  filled  the  landscape.  All  that  he  now 
had  and  was,  belonged  to  him  by  right  and  not 
by  favour.     What  wonder  that  anxieties  began 


242      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  fade,  and  burdens,  even  as  they  multiplied, 
to  grow  lighter!  He  could  not  for  long  be  the 
victim  of  even  occasional  misgiving  and  despair. 
The  past  was  a  sure  prophecy  of  the  future.  It 
needed  but  gradual  adjustment  to  strange  rou- 
tine, slow  formation  of  new  habit,  and  the  confi- 
dence born  of  real  success,  to  make  him  the  hap- 
piest of  men.  Just  when  there  first  stole  into 
his  heart  that  serenity  of  inward  mood  and  out- 
ward demeanour  which  sanctified  his  later  years, 
it  is  impossible  to  say.  But  we  shall  not  be  far 
wrong,  I  believe,  if  we  name  these  days  of  '59 
and  '60. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  243 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  CIVIL  WAR— NATIONAL 
1861-1865 

"War  is  hell,  the  great  commander  said.  Yes,  I 
would  answer ;  war  is  hell.  But  these  memories  steal 
out,  and  then  I  say.  Is  this  all?  And  I  turn  to  the 
seer's  vision  in  the  Holy  Book  and  read,  'There  was 
war  in  heaven.  Michael  and  his  angels  fought  the 
dragon  and  his  angels,  and  the  dragon  was  cast  out.' 
And  then  I  ask,  What  do  these  things  mean?" — R. 
C.  in  "Some  Memories/'  page  151. 

On  April  12,  1861,  was  fired  "that  first  gun 
at  Fort  Sumter  which  brought  all  the  free  states 
to  their  feet  as  one  man."  ^  From  the  moment 
of  Abraham  Lincoln's  inauguration — nay,  from 
the  moment  of  his  election  in  November,  1860 — 
everything  in  the  North  had  been  in  a  hopeless 
state  of  confusion  and  dismay.  The  secession 
of  South  Carohna,  Mississippi,  Florida,  Ala- 
bama, Georgia,  Louisiana,  Texas,  and  the  organ- 
isation of  the  Confederacy — the  honest  doubts  as 
to  the  character  and  ability  of  the  newly-elected 

*  James  Russell  Lowell,  in  Atlantic  Monthly,  June,  1861. 


244      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

President — the  conflicting  counsels  of  the  admin- 
istration, the  Congress,  and  the  people  at  large — 
the  genuine  desire  on  the  part  of  the  North  that 
hostilities  might  be  averted,  and  a  divided  nation 
reunited  in  the  ancient  bonds  of  confidence  and 
love — all  these  circumstances  combined  to  bring 
about  a  condition  of  almost  unprecedented  chaos. 
No  man  knew  what  a  day  nor  an  hour  would 
bring  forth,  nor,  indeed,  w^hat  he  really  desired  it 
to  bring  forth.  The  battle  in  Charleston  harbour, 
however,  transformed  the  situation  as  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  "Judged  by  loss  of  life," 
says  James  Ford  Rhodes,^  "no  battle  could  be 
more  insignificant;  not  a  man  on  either  side  was 
killed.  Judged  by  the  train  of  events  which  en- 
sued, few  contests  in  our  history  have  been  more 
momentous."  On  Sunday  afternoon,  the  14th, 
Major  Anderson  surrendered  Sumter  to  General 
Beauregard.  On  the  next  day,  April  15th,  ap- 
peared Lincoln's  proclamation  calling  for  75,000 
volunteers.  On  Wednesday,  the  Sixth  Massa- 
chusetts Regiment  started  for  Washington,  and 
on  Friday,  the  19th,  met  and  overcame  the  Bal- 
timore mob.  It  was  a  terrific  week,  character- 
ised on  the  one  hand  by  indescribable  excitement, 
and  on  the  other  by  an  almost  instantaneous  fixa- 

•  In  his  "History  of  the  United  States  from  the  Compromise  of 
1850,"  Vol.  Ill,  page  355. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  245 

tion  of  northern  sentiment  in  support  of  Presi- 
dent Lincoln's  determination  to  defend  the 
Union.  "The  North  crystallised  into  a  unit," 
wrote  Emerson,  "and  the  life  of  mankind  was 
saved.  "^ 

The  news  of  Sumter  reached  Chicago  on  Sun- 
day morning,  the  14th.  Hard  on  the  heels  of 
the  first  despatch  announcing  the  bombardment 
of  the  fort  came  a  second  announcing  its  sur- 
render. Excitement,  for  a  time  at  fever-heat, 
was  momentarily  succeeded  by  dismay;  and  then 
was  every  other  sensation  swallowed  up  in  one 
great  passion  of  response  to  the  President's  call 
for  troops.  Meetings  were  everywhere  held  in 
halls  and  on  street  corners,  recruiting  stations 
were  opened  and  straightway  thronged,  banners 
were  flung  to  the  breeze  and  wildly  cheered. 
Men  of  influence  and  power  in  every  walk  of  life 
pledged  their  allegiance  to  the  Union,  and  sought 
at  once  for  some  form  of  public  service.  Robert 
Collyer  was  among  the  first  to  lift  his  voice  and 
pledge  devotion  to  the  nation.  Samuel  Collyer, 
the  oldest  son,  "distinctly  remember  (s)  being  one 
of  a  vast  audience  addressed  by  him  in  front  of 
the  Court  House,  when  he  said  that,  being  a  min- 
ister, he  could  not  go  to  the  front  as  a  soldier,  nor 

■See  James  Elliott  Cabot's  "A  Memoir  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emer- 
son," Vol.  II,  page  605. 


246      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

could  he  let  his  boy  go,  who  was  only  fourteen, 
but  he  had  a  hundred  dollars  in  gold  to  give  to  a 
good  man  who  would  go  in  his  place."* 

On  the  following  Sunday,  April  21st,  the 
churches  of  the  city  spoke.  Unity  was  decked 
with  flags;  they  hung  from  the  organ,  from  the 
iron  rods  supporting  the  frame- work  of  the  roof, 
and  from  the  wall  behind  the  platform.  The 
pulpit  was  enveloped  in  "red,  w^hite  and  blue," 
so  that  it  could  not  be  seen  at  all.  The  pews  of 
course  were  thronged  with  eager  listeners;  the 
minister,  profoundly  stirred  by  the  events  of 
the  past  week,  prepared  to  speak  as  he  had  never 
spoken  before.  The  first  hymn  was  Isaac 
Watts's  "Before  Jehovah's  Awful  Throne,"  the 
second,  "America,"  sung  as  though  to  "lift  the 
roof  in  despite  of  the  iron  rods."  Then  came  the 
sermon,  preached  from  the  text,  "He  that  hath 
no  sword,  let  him  sell  his  garment  and  buy  one." 
The  service  was  closed  with  the  Doxology;  and 
then,  after  the  benediction,  all  stood  and  sang 

*  "A  young  man  came  to  our  house  the  next  morning,"  writes 
Samuel,  "and  said  he  would  like  to  accept  the  offer,  and  would 
send  the  money  to  his  mother  in  Canada.  He  enlisted  in  a  Chicago 
regiment,  and  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Lookout  Mountain.  His 
sword  was  sent  to  me  from  the  battlefield  and  was  hung  in  my 
room  over  the  foot  of  my  bed,  but  could  not  be  found  after  the 
Chicago  fire,  having  been  taken  away  by  relic  hunters.  My  father 
then  sought  out  another  substitute  for  me,  who  was  afterwards 
killed  in  battle  also," 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  247 

with  mingled  shouts  and  tears,  "The  Star  Span- 
gled Banner."  Straight  from  this  service  went 
more  than  one  young  man  to  enlist  for  the  march 
to  Cairo.  The  sermon,  borne  far  and  wide  as 
though  on  wings  of  air,  lifted  Collyer  in  an  in- 
stant to  a  position  of  primacy  among  his  Chicago 
colleagues.  From  this  moment  to  the  close  of 
the  war,  Unity  Church  forgot  completely  its 
parochial  problems  and  ambitions,  and  lived  but 
for  the  one  purpose  of  saving  the  Union. 

The  life  and  thought  of  the  next  two  months 
or  so  are  vividly  suggested  in  a  passage  from  a 
letter  to  Flesher  Bland,  dated  June,  1861.  Coll- 
yer begins  jocularly — 

"I  have  been  saving  a  ten  cent  stamp  for  you  ever 
so  long,  and  so  shall  write  at  once  to  get  rid  of  it,  and 
to  tell  you  how  glad  I  was  to  have  such  a  budget  of 
good  things  all  in  one  day.  .  .  ." 

Then  passing  to  more  serious  matters,  he  says — 

"We  are  full  of  the  war.  The  whole  country  is  a  great 
camp  and  drill  ground.  The  spirit  that  has  been  called 
out  in  defence  of  the  Union  is  the  grandest  thing  ever 
seen  in  the  country,  perhaps  in  the  world.  It  was  the 
most  stirring  time  for  a  few  days  after  the  President's 
proclamation  I  ever  felt.  Of  course  I  have  hardly 
preached  on  any  other  topic.     Last  Sunday  was  the 


248      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

first  time  I  have  got  out  of  it.  I  have  preached  on  *Our 
Relation  to  the  War,'  'Woman  and  the  War,'  'Christ 
and  the  War,'  'God  and  the  War.'  What  or  when  the 
end  will  be  is  not  yet  seen.  We  have  a  great  trial  to  go 
through  before  we  have  done  with  it.  But  the  North 
is  sure  to  conquer,  and  we  shall  put  slavery  to  death 
in  the  conflict.  At  least  I  devoutly  long  for  and  hope 
so.   .  .   ." 

Recruiting  was  everywhere  the  first  order  of 
business.  Excitement  was  of  course  intense,  but 
it  was  more  than  ordinarily  high  and  sustained  in 
Chicago,  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  umivalled 
railroad  facilities  of  this  city  made  it  the  natural 
centre  for  the  assembling  of  the  armies  of  the 
Middle  West  and  their  distribution  to  strategic 
points.  At  first  all  interest  was  focused  on  the 
Chicago  boys,  who  left  their  schools,  workshops 
and  offices  to  enlist  for  service  at  the  front.  They 
were  the  flower  of  the  city's  youth,  men  of  splen- 
did vigour  and  pure  idealism — "a  number  of  fine 
young  fellows  from  our  own  church,"  says  Coll- 
yer  proudly,  "were  among  them."  No  sooner, 
however,  had  the  public  mind  become  somewhat 
adjusted  to  the  local  situation,  than  it  was 
stirred  anew  by  the  arrival  of  the  regiments  and 
batteries  which  had  been  recruited  in  Wisconsin, 
Iowa,  Nebraska  and  the  distant  West.  Week 
after  week,  they  poured  in  in  a  steady  stream, 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  249 

tall,  handsome,  consecrated  young  men,  the 
picked  and  chosen  of  village  and  farm-land, 
clothed,  booted  and  spurred  by  the  loyal  hands 
at  home.  Scarcely  a  day  went  by,  which  did  not 
bring  its  thrill  of  crashing  music,  waving  ban- 
ners, and  excited  cheers,  as  one  more  regiment 
detrained,  marched  through  the  crowded  streets, 
and  either  took  up  its  appointed  place  of  encamp- 
ment on  the  city's  outskirts  or  started  east  for 
immediate  service.  Little  wonder  is  it  that  the 
boy,  Samuel,  fretted  and  fumed  in  the  Collyer 
home  and  could  not  understand  his  father's  per- 
sistent refusal  to  let  him  take  up  arms.^  Little 
wonder,  also,  that  the  father  and  minister,  for- 
bidden by  what  he  regarded  as  the  sacred  obliga- 
tions of  his  clerical  office  to  go  to  the  front, 
sought  consolation  in  keeping  alive  the  fires  of 
patriotic  sentiment  by  the  untiring  labours  of 
tongue  and  pen,  and  in  doing  whatever  odd  jobs 

•  "He  was  loath  to  let  me  go  until  of  enlisting  age  in  spite  of 
my  pleadings.  .  .  .  My  repeated  eiforts  to  get  him  to  consent  to 
my  enlistment,  and  his  pleadings  for  me  to  wait,  finally  culminated 
one  day  in  my  walking  into  a  recruiting  office  and  saying  that  I 
wished  to  enlist.  When  I  was  given  a  pen  with  which  to  sign  my 
name,  my  conscience  came  to  my  rescue,  I  laid  the  pen  down, 
quietly  walked  out,  sought  my  father  in  his  study,  and  we  had  it 
out  together,  resulting  as  usual  in  his  persuading  me  to  wait,  and 
the  waiting  continued  to  the  end,  because  the  war  ended  by  the 
time  I  became  of  enlisting  age." — Samuel  Collyer,  in  a  personal 
statement. 


250      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

of  public  service  might  come  to  hand!  To  speak 
at  a  great  public  rally  at  Bryan  Hall,  to  preside 
at  a  meeting  at  the  Briggs  House  for  the  organ- 
isation of  a  women's  nursing  corps,  to  meet  with 
a  committee  of  citizens  to  consider  problems  of 
relief — these  were  the  routine  labours  of  nearly 
every  day.  For  these  were  the  times  when  the 
best  and  truest  ever^'where  were  thinking  only  of 
"Father  Abraham"  and  his  call  for  help  to  save 
the  Union;  and  Robert  Collyer,  citizen,  preacher, 
and  minister-at-large,  toiled  unceasingly  in  every 
field  open  to  him  for  the  single  cause. 

During  the  early  months  of  the  war,  Collyer 
remained  at  his  post  in  Chicago,  finding  plenty 
to  engage  him  in  his  own  parish  and  city.  Xor 
is  there  indication  in  contemporary  documents 
that  he  had  either  desire  or  expectation  at  this 
time  of  entering  upon  any  different  kind  of  work 
from  that  offered  by  his  regular  parochial  and 
civic  duties.  In  mid-summer,  however,  there 
came  a  summons  which  was  as  welcome  as  it  was 
sudden.  I  refer  to  the  message  from  Dr.  Henry 
W.  Bellows,  minister  of  All  Souls  Church  in 
New  York,  to  come  to  Washington  to  take  up 
sen'ice  with  the  United  States  Sanitary  Com- 
mission. 

The  stor^'  of  this  great  organisation  com- 
prises one  of  the  most  familiar  as  it  does  one 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  251 

of  the  most  beautiful  chapters  of  Civil  War  his- 
tory. Conceived  very  largely  in  the  mind  of  Dr. 
Bellows,  who  served  as  its  president  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  its  beneficent  existence, 
sponsored  by  influential  groups  of  men  and 
women  in  New  York  and  elsewhere,  privately 
established  by  ministers,  physicians  and  public- 
spirited  citizens  who  were  determined  that  the 
health  and  comfort  of  the  enlisted  men  should  not 
be  neglected  by  a  government  absorbed  in  the 
technicalities  of  political,  military  and  diplomatic 
procedure,  the  Sanitary  Commission  was  first 
oflicially  recognised  on  June  9,  1861,  by  an  order 
of  the  Secretary  of  War,  issued  with  the  ap- 
proval of  the  President,  as  "A  Commission  of 
Inquiry  and  Advice  in  Respect  to  the  Sanitary 
Interests  of  the  United  States  Forces."  On 
April  16,  1862,  Congress  passed  a  bill  "to  reor- 
ganise and  increase  the  efficiency  of  the  Medical 
Department  of  the  Army,"  which  gave  the  Sani- 
tary Commission  definite  standing  as  a  depart- 
ment of  government;  and  from  this  time  on,  un- 
der the  administrative  direction  of  Frederick 
Law  Olmsted,  Secretary,  and  the  inspired  lead- 
ership of  Dr.  Bellows,  President,  it  laboured  au- 
thoritatively and  successfully  for  the  good  of  the 
soldiers.  During  its  existence  it  secured  nearly 
five  million  dollars  in  cash,  and  distributed  sup- 


252      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

plies  of  various  kinds  to  the  estimated  value  of  fif- 
teen million  dollars.  Its  work  from  first  to  last 
was  without  scandal,  and  "the  names  of  men  per- 
manently engaged  in  the  work,"  as  James  Ford 
Rhodes  well  states  in  his  monumental  history,^ 
"make  a  roll  of  honour." 

The  work  of  the  Commission  was  of  two  kinds, 
preventive  and  relief.  On  the  one  side,  warned 
by  the  frightful  experience  of  the  English  army 
in  Crimea,  it  undertook  to  safeguard  the  Union 
troops  against  the  diseases  that  haunt  the  wake 
of  armies.  Therefore,  throughout  the  war, 
agents  of  the  Commission  laboured  untiringly 
in  camp  and  on  the  march  for  the  maintenance 
of  such  conditions  and  habits  of  life  as  would 
keep  the  soldiers  at  the  maximum  of  physical 
health.  They  gave  lectures  on  sanitation,  dis- 
tributed tracts  and  articles,  and  gave  personal  in- 
struction on  the  care  of  the  body  and  its  func- 
tions. They  watched  the  food  supply,  tested  the 
drinking  water,  provided  for  the  proper  disposal 
of  refuse,  and  insisted  always  upon  sanitary, 
well-policed,  and  thoroughly  drained  and  salu- 
brious encampments.  They  gave  assiduous  at- 
tention to  the  personal  cleanliness  of  the  men, 
insisting  upon  the  proper  care  of  clothing,  the 

"See  "History  of  the  United  States  from  the  Compromise  of 
1850,"  Vol.  V,  pages  244-259. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  253 

use  of  tooth-brushes  and  other  important  toilet 
articles,  and  frequent  bathing.  Athletic  recrea- 
tions were  fostered,  vice  discouraged  and  fought, 
home  ties  steadfastly  maintained.  No  detail  of 
army  life  was  either  neglected  or  forgotten,  with 
the  result  that  the  Union  soldiers  were  wholly 
spared  such  devastation  as  made  the  Crimean 
War  a  horror. 

Along  with  this  preventive  work,  went  the 
work  of  relief.  This  was  largely  centred,  of 
course,  in  the  hospital  and  transport  service. 
Wherever  were  gathered  the  wounded,  there 
were  gathered  also  the  representatives  of  the 
Conmiission,  not  only  guarding  sanitary  con- 
ditions, but  serving  also  the  needs  of  the  thou- 
sands picked  up  wounded  and  broken  on  the 
fields  of  battle.  The  dressing  of  wounds,  the  giv- 
ing of  medicines,  the  making  of  beds  and  serving 
of  meals,  the  writing  of  letters  to  the  dear  ones 
at  home,  comfort  of  the  dying,  decent  disposal 
of  the  dead — all  these  and  other  trying  tasks  fell 
to  the  attention  of  the  countless  nurses  working 
under  the  direction  of  the  Commission,  and  were 
discharged  with  lovely  fidelity  and  devotion. 
When  the  news  of  some  great  battle  reached  the 
Washington  headquarters,  instantly  the  nearest 
agents  were  despatched  to  the  scene  of  carnage, 
there  to  labour  and  watch  until  the  last  wounded 


254      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

soldier  had  been  found  and  sent  on  his  way  to 
the  base  hospital.  Supplies  for  the  sick  and 
wounded — bedding,  clothing,  food  delicacies, 
bandages,  etc. — were  gathered  and  sent  forward 
by  the  Commission  in  a  never-failing  stream. 
JMoney  was  raised  by  the  thousands  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  dollars  in  all  parts  of  the  coun- 
try. Wonderful  was  the  energy  displayed,  and 
wonderful  the  results  achieved. 

Now  it  was  to  this  great  work  of  prevention 
and  relief  that  Robert  Collyer  was  summoned  in 
the  mid-summer  of  1861  by  a  letter  from  Dr. 
Bellows;  and  it  was  in  this  work,  at  intervals, 
that  he  gladly  engaged  throughout  the  continu- 
ance of  the  war.  As  a  matter  of  form,  the  min- 
ister of  Unity  laid  the  invitation  of  the  President 
of  the  Sanitary  Commission  before  his  congre- 
gation for  action,  but  he  had  little  doubt  that 
they  would  release  him.  Nor  was  his  doubt  con- 
firmed. With  one  voice  the  people  bade  him, 
"Go!"  So  he  went,  and  for  a  period  of  weeks 
extending  to  the  early  part  of  October,  gave  him- 
self um^emittingty  to  the  good  cause. 

On  his  arrival  in  Washington,  Collyer  was  as- 
signed to  the  camps  about  the  city,  where  the 
scattered  army  from  Bull  Run  had  only  recently 
taken  shelter,  and  where  General  McClellan  was 
just  starting  on  the  prodigious  task  of  creating 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  255 

the  "Army  of  the  Potomac"  which  was  later  to 
be  led  to  victory  not  by  himself  but  by  his  suc- 
cessors. It  was  Collyer's  business  to  visit  the 
camps,  examine  their  sanitary  condition  and  the 
general  health  of  the  men,  and  report  to  head- 
quarters. He  was  given  a  team,  with  the  escort 
of  a  soldier,  to  take  him  from  place  to  place ;  and 
he  writes  that  before  he  left  he  had  visited  and 
inspected  eveiy  camp  of  the  great  Union  army. 
As  "all  was  quiet  along  the  Potomac"  that 
summer,  Collyer's  adventures  were  few  and  un- 
exciting. His  story  was  mostly  that  of  hard 
work,  and  plenty  of  it.  Amusing,  however,  was 
his  experience  with  "a  rebel  battery"  across  the 
river.  Accompanied  by  his  ever-faithful  squire, 
the  soldier,  he  was  making  his  way  through  a 
patch  of  woods  toward  the  camp  which  he  was 
planning  to  visit,  when  he  took  a  wrong  turn 
and  was  straightway  "lost."  The  two  plunged 
along  for  a  time,  hoping  to  get  out  of  the  woods 
and  take  their  bearings  in  the  open  country, 
when  suddenly  they  came  to  a  clearing  and  found 
themselves  face  to  face  with  a  row  of  frowning 
cannon.  "A  rebel  battery,"  whispered  the  sol- 
dier. "What'll  we  do?"  "Turn  about  and  make 
for  the  river,"  said  Collyer,  no  non-resistant  but 
wise  enough  not  to  attempt  to  capture  a  battery 
single-handed.     The  two  made  their  escape,  and 


256      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

on  the  return  to  Washington  were  not  slow  to 
teil  of  their  experience.  But  there  were  sceptic^ 
among  the  hearers,  and  soon  it  came  out  that  the 
Confederate  cannon  were  none  other  than  Mun- 
son's  Hill  Battery  of  "Quaker,"  or  wooden, 
guns! 

Equally  amusing  is  Dr.  CoUyer's  account  of 
the  one  glimpse  which  he  caught  of  President 
Lincoln.  "It  was  on  a  sunny  Saturday  after- 
noon," he  writes,  "and  I  remember,  as  we  went 
past  the  White  House  toward  the  bridge,  my 
soldier  said,  'See  them  feet,  sir?'  There  were 
perhaps  half  a  dozen  pairs  set  sole  toward  us  at 
two  open  windows,  and  my  man  said,  'That's  the 
Cabinet  a-settin'.  See  the  big  feet  in  the  middle 
o'  that  window?     Them's  Old  Abe's.'  " 

CoUyer  returned  to  Chicago,  after  this  some- 
what extended  period  of  service,  in  early  October, 
not  to  resume  his  church  w^ork,  however,  but  to 
pass  right  on  to  Missouri  and  inspect  the  army 
of  General  Fremont."^  Starting  in  at  Jefferson 
City,  he  first  examined  the  military  hospitals  and 
found  them  "in  the  most  fearful  condition  you 
can  imagine.     I  cannot  stop  to  tell  you  of  the 

^  In  his  "Some  Memories,"  he  says  that  he  "opened  his  church 
for  one  Sunday  perhaps"  on  this  return  to  Chicago.  The  letter  of 
October  29,  quoted  on  page  258,  however,  indicates  plainly  that 
the  Doctor's  memory  here  failed  him.  He  did  not  resume  his 
preaching  until  after  his  return  from  Missouri. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  257 

scenes  I  saw,"  he  states;  "it  is  enough  to  say  that 
one  poor  fellow  had  lain  there  sick  on  the  hard 
boards  and  seen  five  men  carried  away  dead,  one 
after  another,  from  his  side.  He  was  worn  to  a 
skeleton;  worn  through  so  that  great  sores  were 
all  over  his  back,  and  filthy  beyond  telling."  He 
then  went  out  into  the  country,  which  had  been 
the  scene  of  such  hot  campaigning  by  General 
Lyon  only  a  short  time  before,  to  hunt  out  and 
care  for  the  sick  and  wounded.  The  land  was 
as  though  devastated  by  a  scourge  of  grasshop- 
pers. There  was  nothing  to  eat  apparently  any- 
where: "I  was  never  so  hungry,  so  far  as  I  re- 
member, before  or  since,"  says  the  Doctor.  For- 
tunately his  trip  was  short,  and  he  was  soon  in  St. 
Louis  reporting  to  his  old  friend  Dr.  Eliot,  min- 
ister of  the  Unitarian  church,  who  was  in  charge 
of  this  particular  department  of  the  Sanitary 
Commission's  work.  From  St.  Louis,  he  went 
straight  back  to  Chicago;  and  on  the  following 
Sunday  faced  his  people,  to  tell  them  something 
of  all  that  he  had  seen  and  done  since  he  left  them 
in  mid-summer. 

A  vivid  light  on  this  chapter  in  Collyer's  life, 
as  well  as  on  the  army  conditions  of  this  early 
period  of  the  Civil  War,  is  shed  by  a  letter  writ- 
ten to  Flesher  Bland  on  October  29,  within  a 


258      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

week  of  his  return  to  his  parish.    Beginning  "My 
dear  brother,"  he  says — 

"Your  kind  letter  reached  me  in  Washington  and  was 
very  welcome.  If  it  had  been  possible  for  me  to  come 
by  way  of  Canada  I  should  not  have  failed.  But  I  was 
needed  at  once  and  had  to  go  right  through,  also  I 
came  back,  not  home,  but  to  join  Fremont's  army  in 
Missouri.  I  have  now  got  done,  got  through  with  a 
whole  skin ! !,  and  come  home.  Had  my  first  service  on 
Sunday  to  a  splendid  congregation  and  feel  real  hearty 
and  like  work.  I  was  really  disappointed  at  not  getting 
round  but  this  war  upsets  all  calculations.  I  cannot 
get  home  next  summer  now,  for  I  cannot  ask  my  church 
for  leave  of  absence  so  soon  again.  They  behaved  like 
Trojans,  better  in  fact.  Were  all  on  hand  when  I  got 
home  and  paid  my  salary  all  the  same  while  I  was  away. 
I  am  to  turn  my  last  Sunday's  sermon  into  a  lecture  for 
the  citizens,  as  it  was  a  narrative  of  what  I  had  seen 
during  my  absence.     I  shall  give  it  in  about  a  week. 

"Of  course  soldiering  even  as  a  civilian  is  not  an  easy 
life.  I  should  have  preferred  shoeing  donkeys  for  'old 
Jacky'  so  far  as  ease  went,  but  it  was  such  an  oppor- 
tunity as  can  only  come  once  in  a  life  time  for  seeing 
men  under  strange,  new  circumstances.  I  came  into  con- 
tact with  about  50,000  all  told  and  found  camps  like 
homes,  a  few  nearly  perfect,  a  good  many  that  needed 
to  be  amended,  and  the  rest  dirty,  disorderly  and  disor- 
ganised. I  found  men  whose  pure  steadfast  goodness 
went  with  them  and  shone  from  them  under  all  circum- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  259 

stances,  officers  who  had  taken  to  arms  because  they  had 
failed  shamefully  in  everything  else,  and  officers  who 
were  true  as  steel,  unbending  as  granite,  tender  as  a 
woman.  I  saw  hundreds  of  men  sitting  in  the  golden 
Sunday  sunset  listening  to  the  prayer  or  sermon  as  it 
poured  from  the  heart  of  the  preacher,  or  helping  to 
raise  the  hymn  with  a  heartiness  that  destroyed  all  dis- 
cord as  the  sound  swept  up  through  the  great  arches 
of  heaven.  And  many  of  the  same  men  in  the  week 
day  uttering  blasphemies  that  smote  you  with  a  sudden 
pain  as  when  you  tread  on  a  thorn.  I  saw  chaplains 
in  immaculate  white  cravats,  men  who  would  hardly  soil 
their  fingers  to  save  a  soul,  preaching  to  perhaps  forty 
instead  of  a  whole  regiment  and  even  they  suspecting 
the  sermon  was  meant  for  somebody  else ;  and  chaplains 
whose  every  sermon  was  a  week  long  and  was  made  up 
of  genuine,  hearty  loving  helpfulness,  writing  letters  for 
the  men  to  wives  and  maidens  far  away,  watching  by 
and  comforting  the  sick,  receiving  the  photograph  and 
Bible  and  the  last  message  home  for  the  djdng.  I  have 
seen  the  sick  left  of  their  own  officers  to  rot  in  squalor 
and  destitution,  and  an  old  black  man  or  woman  come 
in  and  bear  them  off  to  their  poor  homes  and  nurse 
them  back  to  life. 

"Our  cause  so  far  does  not  prosper.  We  have  met 
with  little  besides  reverses  and  mostly  very  sore  reverses. 
It  is  a  dark  day  for  America  and  all  the  darker  for  our 
fears.  Our  rulers  are  more  tender  for  slavery  than  they 
are  for  freedom.  I  think  they  are  shamefully  backward 
in  dealing  with  the  root  of  the  matter,  but  I  think  the 


260      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

word  emancipation  will  have  to  be  said  and  stood  to 
before  we  get  through  and  we  shall  have  a  real  republic 
in  the  end.  I  see  by  the  paper  this  morning  that  Cam- 
eron has  authorised  the  employment  of  slaves  as  soldiers 
by  our  araiy  in  the  South.  If  that  be  true  it  is  full  of 
significance  and  will  do  more  for  abolition  than  any 
other  thing  that  has  been  done  except  the  rebellion 
itself. 

"I  wrote  some  letters  to  the  Tribune  here.  My 
wife  does  not  remember  whether  she  sent  you  a  copy. 
I  have  a  copy  of  the  last  and  will  send  it  to  you.  I 
wish  I  had  the  rest,  I  would  send  them  also.  I  hope 
you  got  a  copy  of  a  sermon  on  the  Bull  Run  disaster 
which  was  printed  in  the  Inquirer.  I  wrote  a  good 
deal  more  than  I  printed  and  the  velvet  footed  New 
Yorkers  left  out  one  long  paragraph  of  what  I  sent 
which  advocated  a  younger  man  than  Scot  for  the  chief 
command.  I  see  by  the  papers  he  is  about  to  retire,  so 
I  was  right  after  all. 

"Thank  you  for  being  so  steady  with  the  Mercury 
while  I  was  away.  Now  I  have  got  back  I  can  begin 
to  return  your  favours.  I  see  by  the  one  that  came 
to  hand  yesterday  that  the  Myers  wing  of  Methodism 
in  Addingham  has  got  itself  a  church,  *an  ornament 
to  the  town'  which  your  church  certainly  was  not.  I 
hope  they  will  prosper  and  even  if  Christ  be  preached  of 
contention  if  he  be  preached  there  will  be  good  done. 
What  a  queer  new  world  must  be  mingling  with  the  old 
in  Wharfedale  by  this  time.   .   .   . 

"I  hope  you  are  very  well  and  will  have  a  good  winter. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  261 

I  perceive  you  are  growing  out  there  as  I  was  sure  you 
must;  perhaps  before  I  get  to  Montreal  you  will  be 
there.  You  must  not  refuse  if  you  have  the  offer.  A 
minister  in  a  city  has  vastly  better  leverage  than  in  the 
country,  can  lift  more  and  do  more  in  every  way.  I 
have  no  desire  to  go  into  the  country  to  live  any  more 
and  should  reply  as  the  old  preacher  did  down  in  Penn- 
sylvania when  Conference  sent  him  over  the  Blue  Moun- 
tains to  a  sparse  settlement.  He  went  to  the  Bishop 
to  remonstrate;  the  Bishop  at  last  said  to  him,  'Broth- 
er, you  must  go  where  the  Lord  sends  you,'  and  the  old 
man  said  'I  know  the  Lord  never  would  send  Trie  over 
the  Blue  Mountains.     Conference  is  mistaken.' 

"Ever  in  love, 

"Robert  Collyer." 

After  his  return  from  Missouri,  Collyer  did 
not  leave  the  city  for  four  months.  Indeed,  he 
was  never  again  away  from  his  pulpit  for  more 
than  two  Sundays  at  a  time.  Short  absences, 
however,  were  not  infrequent,  for  the  people  of 
Unity  were  as  eager  to  send  their  minister  on 
errands  of  mercy  as  he  was  to  go. 

The  next  call  of  this  kind  came  in  February, 
1862,  from  the  triumphant  field  of  Fort  Donel- 
son.  When  the  news  of  the  great  feat  of  Gen- 
eral Grant  reached  Chicago,  the  city  went  fairly 
mad  with  delight.  It  had  had  many  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment to  carry  since  the  first  BuU  Run, 


262      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

and  it  had  more  than  once  been  deceived  by 
word  of  victories  which  had  never  been  won,  with 
resulting  humiliation  and  disgust.  But  here  at 
last  was  real  nevvs  of  a  real  achievement!  A 
public  meeting  was  instantly  called  for  jubila- 
tion, congratulation,  and  also  for  action.  For 
not  even  the  delirium  of  rejoicing  which  seized 
upon  the  citizens  at  this  moment  could  make 
them  forget  the  price  which  had  been  paid  for 
the  capture  of  the  Confederate  stronghold. 
There  on  the  Cumberland  w^re  great  numbers 
of  friends  and  foes  together,  wounded,  dying,  in 
urgent  need  of  assistance!  Supplies  must  be 
had  without  delay,  men  must  be  found  to  rush 
these  supplies  to  the  battlefield,  men  and  women 
both  must  be  enlisted  for  service  in  the  crowded 
hospitals.  The  wonderful  meeting  held  on  this 
great  day  rose  nobly  to  the  occasion.  Without 
a  moment's  unnecessary  delay,  a  relief  expedition 
was  organised,  equipped,  and  started  on  its  way, 
with  Robert  Collyer  a  not  inconspicuous  member 
of  the  committee  in  charge. 

This  trip  to  Donelson  seems  to  have  made  a 
deeper  and  more  lasting  impression  on  Collyer's 
mind  than  any  other  of  his  war  experiences.  This 
was  probably  because  it  was  his  first  close-range 
look  at  a  battlefield  and  the  wreckage  of  a  battle- 


Robert  Collyer 

From  a  Photograph  taken  on  his  visit  to  Boston  in  1862 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  263 

field.  In  a  sermon  preached  to  his  people^  on 
the  Sunday  following  his  return,  March  2,  he 
gave  a  vivid  description  of  what  he  had  seen  and 
felt  on  this  occasion.  His  first  impression  was 
of  Cairo,  the  distributing  centre  of  all  this  fiercely 
embattled  area  of  the  Middle  West,  and  there- 
fore the  place  where  were  encountered  the  first 
traces  of  the  great  conflict.  "A  mud-hole,"  as 
Dr.  Collyer  describes  it,  noisy,  crowded,  cluttered 
with  supplies  moving  one  waj^  and  the  pathetic 
debris  of  the  battle,  including  "those  long  boxes 
that  hold  only  and  always  the  same  treasure," 
moving  the  other,  it  was  a  city  hideous  to  enter 
and  good  to  leave  behind.  Therefore  the  Chi- 
cago party  remained  only  long  enough  to  change 
from  steam  train  to  boat.  A  journey  of  one 
hundred  and  sixty  miles  up  the  Ohio  and  Cum- 
berland Rivers  brought  them  at  last  to  Donelson 
and  the  work  which  they  had  come  to  do. 

Collyer's  first  task,  upon  landing,  was  to  hunt 
out  the  Chicago  men,  and  more  especially  the 
"dear  friends  who  used  to  sit  in  (the)  pews"  of 
Unity.  These  were  found  without  difficulty; 
and,  delighted  with  the  sight  of  familiar  and 
much  loved  faces,  they  entertained  the  visitors 
with  coffee,  "which  they  drank  as  if  it  were  nec- 

*And  printed   in  his  first  book,  "Nature  and  Life,"  page  274. 
See  also  "Some  Memories,"  pages  13G-151. 


264      THE  LIFE  AXD  LETTERS 

tar,"  says  the  Doctor,  "and  we  as  if  it  were 
senna."  Then  came  the  news  from  home — tales 
of  the  joy  of  Chicago  over  the  great  victory, 
pride  in  the  boys  who  had  fought  and  won  so  gal- 
lantly, love  from  mother  to  son,  wife  to  husband, 
sister  to  brother.  Finally,  as  clusters  of  soldiers 
gathered  around  to  see  and  hear,  there  came  the 
inevitable  demand  for  "a  few  remarks"  from  the 
minister.  So  Collyer  rose  and,  choking  through 
his  tears,  told  "how  proud  and  thankful  they  had 
made  us,  and  what  great  tides  of  gladness  had 
risen  for  them  in  our  city,  and  wherever  the  tid- 
ings of  victory  had  run;  and  how  our  hands  gave 
but  a  feeble  pressure,  our  hearts  but  a  feeble 
echo,  of  the  mighty  spirit  that  w^as  eveiywhere 
reaching  out  to  greet  those  that  were  safe,  to 
comfort  the  suffering,  and  to  sorrow  for  the 
dead." 

This  duty  done,  grimmer  work  must  now  be 
attended  to.  Close  by  the  battlefield  was  the 
little  town  of  Dover,  and  here  were  gathered  a 
liberal  share  of  the  sick  and  wounded.  The  con- 
dition of  the  suffering  men  was  indescribably 
agonising.  There  were  no  comforts  or  conven- 
iences of  any  kind.  JNIany  of  the  soldiers  were 
lying  on  the  floor,  most  were  unprovided  with 
changes  of  linen  or  bandages,  and  all  were  with- 
out proper  nourishment.     "Had  it  not  been  for 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  265 

the  things  sent  up  by  the  Sanitary  Commission 
in  the  way  of  Hnen,"  says  CoUyer,  "and  things 
sent  by  our  citizens  in  the  way  of  nourishment, 
I  see  no  possibility  by  which  these  wounded  men 
could  have  been  lifted  out  of  their  blood-stained 
woollen  garments  saturated  w4th  wet  and  mud, 
or  could  have  had  any  food  and  drink  except 
corn-mush,  hard  bread,  and  the  turbid  water  of 
the  river."  For  the  first  few  days  there  was  con- 
stant labour  for  every  member  of  the  Chicago 
party.  Gaping  wounds  were  awaiting  ban- 
dages, parched  lips  wxre  crying  for  water,  home- 
sick hearts  w^re  eager  to  dictate  letters,  dying 
souls  were  seeking  consolation  and  confession. 
It  was  a  trying  time,  and  no  hand  was  allowed 
to  rest,  or  eye  to  sleep.  As  fast  as  possible,  the 
wounded  who  were  able  to  be  moved,  were  sent 
on  steamboats  to  Paducah,  Mound  City,  and 
other  places  on  the  river  for  permanent  care ;  and 
one  such  trip  Collyer  took  with  a  group  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty-eight  sorely-stricken  soldiers. 
The  long  cabin  of  the  steamboat  was  packed 
with  men,  laid  side  by  side  so  close  that  one  could 
hardly  put  one  foot  between  to  give  them  a  drink 
or  to  cool  their  fearful  hurts.  "Here  is  one  who 
has  lost  an  arm,  and  there  one  who  has  lost  a  leg. 
This  old  man  of  sixty  has  been  struck  by  grape- 
shot,  and  that  boy  of  eighteen  has  been  shot 


266      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

through  the  lung."  The  boy  in  the  corner  is  suf- 
fering untold  agony ;  all  day  long  his  cries  of  pain 
are  heard  through  half  the  length  of  the  boat. 
This  other  boy,  on  the  contrary,  is  quiet;  his 
white  drawn  face  is  falling  into  lines  of  gentle 
repose  as  the  tide  of  life  runs  slowly  out.  A  third 
is  giving  his  last  message  to  one  hastily  sum- 
moned to  his  side.  "I  am  going,"  he  gasps;  'T 
want  you  please  to  write  a  letter  to  my  father; 
tell  him  I  owe  such  a  man  two  dollars  and  a  half, 
and  such  a  man  owes  me  four  dollars;  and  he 
must  draw  my  pay  and  keep  it  all  for  himself." 
Then  he  lies  silently  a  little  while,  and,  as  the 
nurse  wets  his  lips,  says,  "Oh,  I  should  so  like  a 
drink  out  of  my  father's  well!"  and,  in  a  moment, 
has  gone.  A  case  of  especial  interest  is  that 
of  a  yellow-haired  German  with  big  blue  eyes, 
who  can  take  no  nourishment  because  of  facial 
injury,  and  is  perishing  for  lack  of  food.  In  a 
trice,  the  Yorkshireman's  ingenious  mind  has 
found  a  way.  Through  "a  pretty  silvered  fun- 
nel" which  he  has  spied  on  a  shelf,  he  pours  into 
a  slit,  in  one  corner  of  the  invalid's  mouth,  some 
milk  mixed  with  sugar  and  brandy.  Slowly  but 
surely  the  refreshing  liquid  gurgles  its  way  down 
into  the  hungry  stomach  and  does  its  work. 
Once,  twice,  thrice,  at  safe  intervals,  the  stream 
is  poured  through  the  funnel  into  the  shattered 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  267 

mouth,  and,  before  Mound  City  is  reached,  the 
surgeon  declares  the  fellow  will  get  well.  "Do 
you  believe  it,"  writes  the  Doctor  in  raptures,  "I 
think  that  by  heaven's  blessing  on  the  milk  and 
things,  I  saved  the  blue-eyed  boy's  life." 

Aside  from  this  one  trip,  Robert  Collyer  spent 
all  of  his  time  in  the  local  camps  and  hospitals, 
giving  aid  to  the  suffering,  consolation  to  the  dy- 
ing, and  last  rites  to  the  dead.  In  this  business, 
he  was  in  many  ways  at  his  best.  His  hand  was 
as  gentle  as  a  woman's,  his  heart  as  quick  in  its 
sympathy  and  tenderness  as  a  child's.  A  little 
service  done,  a  few  simple  words  spoken,  per- 
haps only  an  understanding  smile  upon  his  hand- 
some face  as  he  passed  by,  seemed  as  if  by  some 
miracle  to  create  a  kind  of  personal  contact  which 
not  only  quickened  the  sufferer  at  the  moment 
but  endured  in  his  heart  forever.  There  w^as 
healing  in  his  touch  and  presence,  even  as  in  the 
garment  of  the  Master.  One  incident  w^hich  be- 
gan in  Cairo,  on  the  way  up  to  Donelson,  and 
ended  years  later  in  Chicago,  tells  the  whole 
story.  While  strolling  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  he  came  upon  a  young  soldier  badly 
wounded  in  the  head,  sitting  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  with  his  feet  in  the  mud  and  slime.  A  few 
inquiries  elicited  the  information  that  he  was 
from  Donelson,  and  was  now  on  his  way  to  his 


268      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

home  in  Indiana.  "Is  there  anything  that  I  can 
do  for  you?"  asked  Collyer.  "Yes,"  said  the 
man,  "you  can  give  me  a  bit  of  tobacco."  Coll- 
yer did  not  smoke  at  this  time,  and  therefore  had 
no  tobacco  with  him.  He  gave  the  lad  some 
money,  however,  "and  some  over  to  help  him 
home";  and  by  way  of  reward,  the  young  soldier 
removed  the  bandage  from  his  head  and  showed 
him  his  wound — a  bad  bulge  on  the  forehead! 
"The  bullet  did  not  go  in,  then,"  said  Collyer 
cheerily.  "Xo,  sir,"  came  the  answer,  "my  head 
was  too  thick  for  the  bullets  of  them  rebs.  It 
flatted  and  fell  off.  I  got  it  here  in  my  pocket." 
Whereupon  he  pulled  the  thing  out,  and  ex- 
claimed with  a  fine  disdain,  "That  ain't  no  use 
ag'in  a  head  like  mine."  Years  later,  on  a  Sun- 
day in  Unity  Church,  a  young  man  greeted  the 
minister  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs.  "You 
don't  remember  me,  sir,"  he  said.  Then  he  did 
two  things — lifted  a  tuft  of  hair  from  a  scar  on 
his  forehead,  and  laid  in  Dr.  Collyer's  hand  a 
flattened  bullet.  "I  am  all  right  now,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  went  back  to  my  regiment,  and  kept 
my  thick  head  safe  and  sound  through  the  war, 
and  took  a  notion  to  come  up  to  Chicago  to  see 
you.  I  had  to,  for  I  A\ill  never  forget  how  you 
acted  about  that  tobacco."  ^ 

"See  "Some  Memories,"  pages   141-143. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  269 

In  the  intervals  of  the  nursing  at  Donelson, 
CoUyer  took  pains  to  visit  the  Chicago  boys ;  and 
now  and  again,  he  exi^lored  the  battleground. 
Once  he  went  over  the  entire  field  of  conflict  un- 
der the  escort  of  General  Webster,  who  had  had 
command  of  the  artillery  during  the  late  action. 
Here  he  saw  the  shattered  breastworks,  the  rav- 
aged fields,  strewn  with  garments,  harness,  weap- 
ons, shot  and  shell,  dead  horses,  the  clustered  and 
hurriedly  marked  graves  of  those  who  had  "paid 
their  last  full  measure  of  devotion,"  while  in  one 
trench  he  "counted  three  men  who  had  not  been 
buried,  and  in  another,  on  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
there  were  eleven."  One  day,  he  says,  "as  I  stood 
in  a  bit  of  secluded  woodland,  in  the  still  morn- 
ing, the  spring  birds  sang  as  sweetly,  and  flitted 
about  as  merrily,  as  if  no  tempest  of  fire  and 
smoke  and  terror  had  ever  driven  them  in  mortal 
haste  away.  In  one  place  where  the  battle  had 
raged,  I  found  a  little  bunch  of  sweet  bergamot 
that  had  just  put  out  its  brown-blue  leaves,  re- 
joicing in  its  first  resurrection;  and  a  bed  of  daf- 
fodils, ready  to  unfold  their  golden  robes  to  the 
sun;  and  the  green  grass  in  many  places  was  fair 
to  see.  But  where  great  woods  had  cast  their 
shadows,  the  necessities  of  attack  and  defence 
had  made  one  haggard  and  almost  universal  ruin 
— trees  cut  down  into  all  sorts  of  wild  confusion, 


270      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

torn  and  splintered  by  cannon-ball,  trampled  by 
horses  and  men,  and  crushed  under  the  heavy 
wheels  of  artillery.  .  .  .  One  sad  wreck  covered 
all." 

In  a  little  over  a  month  after  Collyer's  return 
from  this  expedition  to  his  duties  in  Chicago,  he 
was  summoned  to  depart  on  an  exactly  similar 
mission  to  Pittsburg  Landing.  This  was  early 
in  April.  A  larger  company  than  before  went 
out  for  the  work  of  relief  and  rescue,  and  this 
time  Robert  Collyer,  thanks  to  his  experience  at 
Donelson,  was  appointed  captain.  It  was  much 
the  same  kind  of  trip — first,  railroad  down  to 
Cairo,  then  steamboat  up  the  river,  and  then  the 
awful  plunge  into  the  waste  of  blood  and  terror! 
The  task,  however,  was  more  trying,  in  spite  of 
the  initiation  into  this  business  in  February,  for 
the  two  days'  battle  was  one  of  the  fiercest  of 
the  Civil  War,  the  number  of  men  engaged  very 
large,  and  the  carnage  on  both  sides  well-nigh 
beyond  description.  Night  and  day,  for  over  a 
week,  the  men  from  Chicago  laboured  to  better 
conditions  which  were  "confusion  worse  con- 
founded," and  to  alleviate  sufferings  which  in  a 
thousand  cases  seemed  greater  than  could  be 
borne.  At  one  moment  they  were  nurses,  at  the 
next  surgeons'  assistants,  and  at  the  last  perhaps 
consolers  and  confessors.     Finally,  after  a  week 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER        .  271 

of  exhausting  labour,  Collyer  took  charge  of  a 
steamer,  loaded  to  the  gunwales  with  wounded 
for  IMound  City,  and  from  there  returned  again 
to  Chicago. 

It  w^as  on  this  expedition  that  Robert  Collyer 
had  his  famous  encounter  with  Dwight  L. 
Moody.  They  met  on  the  steamboat  which  was 
bound  up  the  river  from  Cairo  to  Pittsburg 
Landing,  Moody  being  one  of  a  group  of  min- 
isters who  constituted  a  so-called  "Christian 
Commission."  In  the  course  of  the  trip,  these 
men  arranged  a  prayer-meeting  in  the  saloon  of 
the  boat,  to  which  Moody  personally  invited 
"Brother  Collyer."  The  addresses  took  the 
usual  course  of  talks  on  such  occasions — the  sin- 
fulness of  men,  their  need  of  salvation,  the  atone- 
ment of  Christ,  etc.,  all  in  due  order.  Moody, 
called  upon  to  speak  early  in  the  meeting,  re- 
ferred to  the  soldiers  of  Shiloh,  who  were  dying 
in  their  sins,  and  rejoiced  that  they  were  now 
bound  for  the  battlefield  to  save  their  souls. 

This  was  more  than  Collyer  could  stand.  Ris- 
ing quickly  to  his  feet,  he  said,  "Brother  Moody 
is  mistaken:  we  are  not  going  there  to  save  the 
souls  of  our  soldiers,  but  to  save  their  lives,  and 
leave  their  souls  in  the  hands  of  God."  He  then 
told  of  the  work  that  he  had  done  at  Fort  Donel- 
son — the  staunching  of  wounds,  the  bathing  and 


272      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

nursing  of  broken  bodies,  the  soothing  of  dis- 
tracted minds — and  affirmed  with  ringing  elo- 
quence that  this,  in  the  beginning,  at  least,  was 
what  he  was  now  coming  to  this  latest  battlefield 
to  perform. 

This  startling  outburst  of  unregeneracy  was 
followed  by  an  awed  silence.  Then  rose  a 
brother  clergyman  from  Chicago,  who  testified 
that  this  undoubtedly  was  good  Unitarianism  but 
hardly  good  Christianity.  "The  Unitarians," 
he  said,  "always  work  from  the  surface  inward; 
but  we  go  directly  to  the  heart  first,  and  then 
work  out  to  the  surface,  ending  where  they  be- 
gin. We  must  do  the  one  thing  and  not  leave 
the  other  undone — warn  the  sinner,  pray  with 
him,  and  point  him  to  the  thief  on  the  cross." 

Collyer  was  instant  with  his  reply.  "My 
friends,"  he  said,  "we  know  what  those  men  have 
done,  no  matter  who  or  what  they  are.  They 
left  their  homes  for  the  camp  and  the  battle, 
while  we  stayed  behind  in  our  city.  They  en- 
dured hardness  like  good  soldiers,  while  we  were 
lodged  safely.  They  have  fought  and  fallen  for 
the  flag  of  the  Union  and  all  the  flag  stands  for, 
while  here  we  are  safe  and  sound.  I  will  not 
doubt  for  a  moment  the  sincerity  of  my  friend 
and  yours  who  has  just  spoken;  but  I  will  say  for 
myself  that  I  should  be  ashamed  all  my  life  long 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  273 

if  I  should  point  to  the  thief  on  the  cross  in  speak- 
ing to  these  men,  or  to  any  other  thief  the  world 
has  ever  heard  of." 

These  were  brave  words,  and  they  did  not  fail 
of  their  response.  "When  I  sat  down,"  says  the 
Doctor,  "there  was  a  roar  of  applause." ^^ 

Another  "call  from  ISIacedonia"  came  when 
Lawrence,  Kansas,  was  swept  with  burning, 
plundering  and  murder  by  Quantrell  and  his 
guerillas.  The  great  heart  of  Chicago  was  again 
touched,  and  Robert  Collyer  was  again  selected 
as  the  proper  man  to  bear  the  city's  relief  to 
the  stricken  population.  Jeremiah  Brown,  a 
brother  of  the  immortal  John,  who  knew  Kansas 
as  he  knew  the  Bible,  went  out  with  him,  and  to- 
gether they  did  the  blessed  work  of  succour.  On 
the  Sunday  following  his  return,  sixteen  men 
who  had  gone  out  from  Chicago  and  perished  in 

*"  See  "Some  Memories,"  pages  126-127.  "About  a  year  before 
Brother  Moody  was  taken  to  his  well-won  rest  and  reward,  I  was 
standing  one  morning  on  a  platform  of  the  elevated,  waiting  for 
a  train,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder  from  behind,  and, 
turning,  there  was  Brother  Moody!  I  had  not  met  him  since  that 
day  on  the  way  to  Pittsburg  Landing.  There  was  a  smile  now 
on  his  honest  face,  I  was  glad  to  notice;  and  with  no  word  of 
preface,  he  said,  'You  were  ail  wrong  that  day  in  the  saloon.'  And 
I  answered,  'Old  friend,  if  I  was  ever  all  right  in  my  life,  it  was 
on  that  afternoon  oo  the  steamer;  and,  if  we  must  all  answer  for 
the  deeds  done  in  the  body,  my  answer  will  be  ready,  and  don't 
you  forget  it !'  We  parted  then,  and  I  saw  him  to  speak  to  him 
no  more." — R.  C.  in  "Some  Memories,"  page  126. 


274      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

the  massacre,  were  buried  from  the  city's  largest 
hall.  Collyer,  appointed  to  preach  the  sermon 
on  this  impressive  occasion,  spoke  as  only  he 
could  speak  for  his  mourning  fellow-citizens. 
In  the  magic  simplicity  of  his  Saxon  English, 
and  with  the  deep  fervour  of  his  unspoiled  heart, 
he  told  what  he  had  seen,  and  what  these  sixteen 
men  had  done,  in  Kansas.  No  word  of  bitter- 
ness passed  his  lips — he  had  seen  too  much  of  the 
passion,  suffering  and  heroism  on  both  sides  of 
the  bitter  conflict,  to  cherish  hate  or  speak  denun- 
ciation. Only  the  sweet  compassion  for  dis- 
tress and  the  swift  delight  in  gallantry,  which  he 
felt  as  keenly  as  any  man  who  ever  lived,  found 
utterance  this  day,  and  all  who  heard  were 
touched  as  though  by  some  miracle  of  the  spirit, 
and  straightway  purified.  "I  can  never  forget 
that  Sunday,"  says  Dr.  Collyer;  nor  could  those, 
we  may  be  sure,  to  whom  he  spoke. 

Before  the  war  was  over,  Robert  Collyer 
looked  back  in  retrospect  upon  these  experiences 
at  the  front,  and  summed  them  up  as  follows: 
"It  has  been  my  lot  .  .  .  to  see  some  of  the  most 
frightful  scenes  the  war  has  had  to  show.  I 
have  been  on  our  great  battlefields  in  the  West, 
while  the  dead  were  strewn  thick  where  they  fell, 
sunk  in  the  mud,  with  the  rain  beating  down  upon 
them  all  day  long.     I  have  gone  through  the 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  275 

camps  and  hospitals  from  the  banks  of  the  Poto- 
mac to  the  far  western  wilds  of  Missouri.  I 
have  seen  our  men  cared  for  by  our  own  noble 
Sanitary  Commission,  and  utterly  neglected  in 
the  far  away  places  where,  in  the  earlier  days  of 
the  war,  its  blessed  influences  had  not  yet  pene- 
trated. And  let  me  stop  for  a  moment  here  to 
say  that  but  for  this  Commission,  so  far  as  I  am 
able  to  judge,  the  results  of  the  war  would  have 
been  frightful  beyond  all  power  of  description 
in  neglected  soldiers.  I  have  seen  men  in  dis- 
tant hospitals  housed  and  fed  as  you  would  not 
house  and  feed  a  dog.  I  have  found  twenty- 
seven  men,  most  of  them  sick  to  death,  sent  two 
hundred  miles  on  the  car  floor  of  two  box  cars, 
with  raw  pork  and  hard  bread  and  water  for  their 
sustenance,  and  a  coffin  containing  a  dead  man 
for  their  table,  and  seven  of  the  twenty-seven 
dead  on  the  way.  I  have  found  our  men  dying 
in  a  corner  utterly  alone.  I  have  attended  them 
in  crowded  steamers  where  we  could  not  step  for 
the  heavy  ranks  of  maimed  men.  And  I  declare 
to  you,  on  my  honour,  I  have  never  yet  found  a 
born  child  of  this  nation,  wounded  or  sick  or 
dying,  who  did  not  show  some  grand  mark  of  pa- 
tience and  heroic  quality  such  as  make  men  weep 
for  pride  and  joy  that  they  belong  to  such  stock. 
I  have  heard  last  messages,  written  last  letters. 


276      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

carried  little  gifts,  seen  last  looks  that  were  full 
of  the  purest  and  most  noble  love.  I  have  seen 
not  one  man,  but  many  and  many  a  time  men 
who,  all  shattered  and  dying  themselves,  could 
take  the  one  hand  that  was  not  gone,  to  do  some 
kind  office  for  the  man  who  was  lain  down  beside 
him.  I  have  seen  the  American  woman  deli- 
cately shrinking  from  all  coarse  sights  and 
sounds,  go  quietly  through  scenes  which  made 
the  strongest  of  us  shrink — all  day  long  an  angel 
of  mercy  from  heaven.  Ay,  I  have  seen  an  old 
black  woman,  a  child  of  Africa,  surpass  them 
all."  And  then,  telling  a  touching  story  of 
Negro  devotion,  he  declared,  "We  have  grown 
noble  in  our  suffering." 

This  war  service  of  Robert  Collyer  was  valiant 
and  unselfish.  The  actual  time  spent  at  the 
front,  however,  during  the  war,  was  not  great. 
During  the  larger  part  of  this  momentous  period, 
he  was  at  home  in  Chicago,  engaged  in  tireless 
activities.  The  parish  work  was  always  with 
him,  and  this  meant  much  more  than  in  ordinary 
times,  for  the  people,  young  and  old,  were  organ- 
ised for  the  service  of  the  Sanitary  Commission, 
and  the  church  therefore  was  a  hive  of  activity 
from  one  week's  end  to  another.  Then  there 
were  the  insistent  calls  of  the  city  upon  his  time 
and  strength.     No  man  was  more  popular  or 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  277 

influential  as  a  speaker  at  public  meetings.  No 
man  was  more  successful  in  raising  large  sums 
of  money  for  the  ever-pressing  work  of  relief. 
No  man  was  more  active  on  the  various  com- 
mittees organised  from  time  to  time  for  public 
service.  His  labours,  for  example,  on  a  commit- 
tee appointed  to  supervise  the  care  of  prisoners 
at  Camp  Douglas  were  constant  and  untiring 
through  a  long  period  of  time.  His  heart  drew 
him  as  instinctively  to  this  personal  service  on 
behalf  of  the  captured  Confederates,  as  to  the 
similar  service  on  behalf  of  the  stricken  Union- 
ists at  Donelson  and  Pittsburg  Landing.  Here 
were  men  in  distress — lonely,  sick,  wounded — 
that  was  all  he  wanted  to  know !  The  fact  that 
they  were  enemies — men  who  had  been  battling 
for  the  hated  cause  of  disunion  and  in  defence 
of  the  iniquitous  institution  of  slavery — never 
touched  him  in  the  remotest  degree.  These 
prisoners  had  their  point  of  view,  they  had 
fought  for  what  they  regarded  as  their  rights — 
they  were  not  to  be  blamed.  And  even  if  they 
were,  it  still  remained  true  that  they  "were  sick 
and  in  prison,"  and  therefore  he  must  "come  unto 
them."  And  so  he  came — to  bind  up  their 
wounds,  to  bathe  their  fevered  brows,  to  write 
their  letters  to  their  loved  ones,  to  talk  homesick- 
ness out  of  their  hearts  with  tales  of  merriment 


278      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

and  words  of  sympathy,  to  teach  them  now  and 
again  ''of  faith  in  God  our  Father  and  of  his 
Christ  who  came  to  tell  us  of  his  Father's  love 
for  all  his  children,  not  here  and  now  alone,  but 
forever  here  and  hereafter."  It  was  a  ministry 
which  was  wearing  in  body,  mind  and  soul,  but 
infinitely  lovely  and  rewarding. 

And  then,  during  all  these  months  and  years 
of  the  war,  there  was  the  preaching!  In  the 
beginning,  as  we  have  seen,  he  talked  constantly 
on  subjects  suggested  by  the  great  conflict. 
Later  on,  when  the  initial  excitement  was  over, 
he  relapsed  into  that  normal  consideration  of 
normal  themes  which  becomes  the  lot  of  every 
minister  even  in  days  of  direst  cataclysm.  He 
was  too  near  the  centre  of  things,  however,  too 
deeply  stirred  by  what  was  going  on,  and  too 
keenly  aware  of  the  real  nature  of  the  struggle, 
to  remain  in  any  sense  aloof  or  apart  from  events 
in  his  pulpit  utterances.  Always  on  the  first 
Sunday  after  his  return  from  an  expedition  to 
the  front,  for  example,  he  would  dispense  with 
any  formal  sermon,  and  tell  in  simple  narrative 
of  what  he  had  seen  and  done.  These  addresses 
were  invariably  regarded  as  of  great  public  mo- 
ment, and,  generously  reported  in  the  newspa- 
pers, exerted  a  potent  influence  in  maintaining 
interest  in  the  war  and  spurring  on  the  home 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  279 

folks  to  ever  greater  efforts  for  the  relief  of  the 
soldiers.  Then  too,  when  some  great  battle  was 
monopolising  public  attention,  or  some  patriotic 
holiday  was  stirring  the  pulses  of  the  people,  or 
especially  some  dire  disaster  shaking  the  confi- 
dence of  the  nation,  he  was  sure  to  mount  his 
pulpit  like  a  herald,  and  sound  therefrom  a  clar- 
ion call  which  echoed  to  the  remotest  bounds  of 
the  city,  and  sometimes  far  beyond. 

One  such  sermon  he  preached  on  July  28, 
1861,  the  Sunday  following  the  shameful  rout 
at  Bull  Run.  The  outcome  of  this  battle  was  a 
teri'ific  blow  to  every  man  in  the  North  from 
Abraham  Lincoln  down.  Expectation  had 
mounted  high  when  JMcDowelFs  army  moved 
against  the  Confederate  forces.  Arlington 
Heights  and  Alexandria  had  been  seized  and 
held  two  months  before.  The  expedition  against 
Big  Bethel  had  been  badly  mismanaged  and 
therefore  unsuccessful;  but  this  was  more  than 
counterbalanced  by  the  brilliant  victories  of  JNIc- 
Clellan  and  Rosecrans  in  West  Virginia.  Mean- 
while, during  all  of  these  weeks  of  abounding  en- 
thusiasm, regiments  had  been  pouring  into 
Washington  in  a  steady  stream  from  all  sections 
of  the  North.  What  more  natural,  nay,  inevitable, 
than  the  public  demand  that  the  newly  gath- 
ered army  should  prove  its  worth  and  therefore 


280      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

the  justice  of  its  cause  by  marching  on  Richmond 
and  ending  the  rebellion  uj^on  the  instant  ?  That 
there  might  be  difficulties  in  the  way  of  immedi- 
ate victory  was  never  imagined  by  any  one.  So 
certain  seemed  the  capture  of  the  Confederate 
capital  and  the  early  close  of  the  war,  that  it 
needed  but  a  mere  rumour  that  Richmond  had 
fallen,  to  turn  all  the  citizens  of  Chicago  into  the 
streets  to  join  in  celebration  of  the  return  of 
peace.  They  shouted,  cheered,  marched,  flung 
out  their  flags,  rang  the  great  bell  in  the  cupola 
of  the  courthouse  until  it  broke.  And  then  came 
the  incredible  news  that  the  Union  army  had 
been  not  only  defeated,  but  driven  back  in  shame- 
ful rout  and  senseless  panic  upon  the  defences 
of  Washington!  It  w^as  a  dreadful  awakening, 
not  merely  to  the  direful  uncertainties  of  war, 
but  also  to  the  grim  and  tragic  character  of  this 
conflict  which  now  was  joined  between  North 
and  South.  "Only  a  few  proposed  to  give  up 
the  contest,"  says  Rhodes,  ^^  "but  it  was  perceived 
that  instead  of  one  short  campaign,  the  war 
would  be  long  and  severe,  and  that  training  as 
well  as  enthusiasm  was  needed  to  win." 

It  was  in  this  crisis  of  disillusionment  that 
Robert  Colly er  preached  his  sermon  on  "Sift- 
ing," from  the  text,  "And  the  Lord  said,  Simon, 

"  See  his  "History  of  the  United  States,"  Vol.  Ill,  page  455. 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  281 

Simon,  behold,  Satan  hath  desired  to  have  you, 
that  he  may  sift  you  as  wheat."  Laying  down 
the  principle  that  evil  may  very  well  be  conceived 
of  as  performing  the  invaluable  function  in  the 
lives  of  men  and  nations  of  "purification,  sifting, 
showing  what  is  good  in  proving  what  is  evil,"  the 
preacher  ventured  the  affirmation  that  America 
was  at  that  moment  being  "shaken,  separated, 
sifted"  by  the  shock  of  defeat  and  humiliation, 
"that  the  real  grain  may  come  out  for  a  new 
spring-time  and  summer  and  harvest  of  God." 
He  then  went  on  to  make  what  he  called  "two  or 
three  important  applications  bearing  upon  the 
sad  reverse  which  we  all  lament  to-day." 

"The  goodness  of  our  cause,"  he  said,  "with 
the  divine  blessing  at  the  back  of  it,  and  the  most 
perfect  devotion  in  our  men,  will  not  be  a  match 
against  the  thoroughness  of  our  enemies,  if  our 
leaders  are  only  remarkable  for  half-heartedness 
or  executive  blunders.  The  Roundheads  fought 
for  constitution  and  law,  as  clearly  as  we  do; 
but  they  were  beaten  from  post  to  pillar,  until 
they  formed  a  real  power  and  found  a  true  leader. 
And  it  is  said  that  when  Cromwell  formed  his 
great  regiment  of  Ironsides,  and  numbers  flocked 
to  the  standard,  all  likely  men,  he  did  not  feel 
sure  until  he  had  them  betrayed  into  an  ambush 
that  he  had  set  for  them;  then,  as  he  rode  down 


282      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

the  ranks,  in  the  seeming  imminent  danger,  he 
saw  in  their  faces  which  good  men  would  not  do 
for  an  Ironside,  and  told  such  frankly  that  the 
Lord  wanted  their  arms  and  horses  for  other 
men.  And  it  came  to  pass  that  these  select  men 
were  never  beaten — first,  I  devoutly  believe,  be- 
cause they  were  good  men,  but  greatly  because 
by  personal  vigour,  skill  in  the  use  of  the  best 
weapons  known  to  that  time,  with  a  commander 
that  they  could  trust  as  they  trusted  their  right 
hand,  every  separate  man,  without  reckoning  his 
saintship,  was  a  match  for  any  simier  that  could 
be  matched  against  him.  So,  in  this  great  cause 
to-day,  there  must  be  this  correlative  force  of 
man  to  man,  brain  to  brain,  prime  to  prime.  .  .  ." 
He  next  raised  the  question  as  to  whether  Bull 
Run  was  not  "a  sifting"  of  the  unwisdom  of  send- 
ing "beardless  boys"  to  the  front,  "while  so  many 
strong  men  stayed  at  home."  He  asked  if  it  was 
not  a  revelation  of  the  fact  that  "fifty  thousand 
men  in  a  good  cause,  however  brave  and  true, 
breakfasting  on  crackers  and  water,  cannot  carry 
miles  of  entrenchments  on  a  sweltering  day, 
against  seventy  thousand  well-fed  and  deter- 
mined defenders."  And  then  he  concluded  with 
the  soul-stirring  challenge,  "We  shall  be  sifted 
until  we  resolve  to  grow  to  the  measure  of  our 
good  cause  altogether.  .  .  .  We  shall  be  sifted 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  283 

until  we  are  pure,  strong,  and  all  for  freedom 
under  the  Constitution.  .  .  .  We  shall  be  sifted 
of  all  traitors  and  all  treachery.  So  will  this  evil 
spirit  sift  us,  and  set  us  with  the  wheat  or  the 
chaff,  as  we  belong.  Then,  in  this  soil  of  the  New 
World,  God  will  plant  a  pure  seed,  and  water  it 
from  heaven.  There  shall  be  a  handful  of  corn, 
and  the  fruit  thereof  shall  shake  like  Lebanon; 
for  the  mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it." 

Another  sermon  entitled  "Our  National  Peril: 
A  Sermon  for  the  Times,"  was  preached  from 
the  text,  "Who  knoweth  whether  thou  art  come 
to  the  kingdom  for  such  a  time  as  this,"  on  July 
6,  1862.^^  This  was  a  dark  period  in  the  history 
of  the  Rebellion.  The  war  in  the  West,  to  be 
sure,  had  been  signalised  by  the  storming  of  Forts 
Henry  and  Donelson  in  February,  the  hard-won 
victory  at  Shiloh  in  April,  and  the  capture  of 
Island  No.  10  in  the  same  month.  From  the  sea 
had  come  the  thrilling  stories  of  New  Orleans, 
Roanoke  Island,  and  the  Monitor  and  Merrimac, 
But  all  these  were  forgotten  in  the  shame  of 
Jackson's  triumphant  raid  of  the  Shenandoah, 
the  overwhelming  disappointment  of  the  Penin- 

"  In  the  newspaper  report,  this  sermon  is  headed  by  the  follow- 
ing editorial  note — "We  give  place  to  the  following  sermon  at  the 
request  of  a  large  number  of  citizens,  not  the  parishioners  of  Mr. 
Collyer.  His  views  are  historic,  striking  and  sound,  and  should 
command  the  attention  of  the  reader." 


284      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

sular  campaign,  and  the  darkening  menace  of 
European,  or  at  least  English,  intervention. 
July  4th,  which  saw  the  nation  breathing  a  sigh 
of  relief  that  McClellan's  host  was  safe,  instead 
of  lifting  a  shout  of  joy  that  Richmond  was 
taken,  was  a  holiday  of  mingled  gloom,  indigna- 
tion and  rededication.  All  the  moods  of  the  hour 
are  clearly  reflected  in  Collyer's  discourse  on  the 
Sunday  following. 

"Our  nationality  is  in  peril  of  being  blotted 
out,"  he  began.  "That  is  the  first  thing  to  say 
to  you  this  morning.  The  reasons  why  we  shall 
not  be  a  great  distinctive  people  from  this  time, 
are  stronger  than  they  have  ever  been  before — 
stronger  than  they  were  a  year  ago,  I  think,  and 
the  question  of  nation  or  no  nation  is  now  more 
than  ever  a  grave  question;  the  solution  of  the 
problem  depends  eventually  under  God  upon 
ourselves.  The  questions  I  shall  put  to  you,  and 
by  consequence  to  myself,  are  plain  questions, 
and  they  admit  of  a  plain  answer.  They  are  not 
my  questions.  I  only  come  here  as  the  word. 
God  himself  has  put  the  questions  .  .  .  and  they 
must  be  answered;  and  as  God  shall  put  them 
one  by  one,  if  we  say.  Ay,  we  say  salvation 
and  no  ruin." 

Then  came  the  questions — each  a  heart-search- 
ing challenge  to  faltering  courage,  and  an  appeal 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  285 

for  nobler  zeal  and  a  braver  consecration.  First 
of  all  was  the  question  of  national  unity.  "Have 
we  made  up  our  minds,"  he  asked,  "that  we  will 
preserve  to  our  children  what  has  come  down  to 
us  from  the  fathers — a  compact,  solid,  American 
nationality,  one  and  indivisible  ?  Are  we  so  bound 
to  this  that,  like  Fisher  Ames,  we  mean  to  teach 
it  to  our  children,  if  need  be,  in  their  catechism, 
as  one  of  the  deep  essential  first  things  of  life — 
to  possess  them  with  the  conviction  that  the  sun 
will  not  shine,  nor  the  corn  grow  for  body  or 
soul  as  it  ought  to,  when  this  glory  departs  from 
us — that  this  loss,  if  it  come  from  any  sin  in  us, 
or  them,  is  the  unpardonable  sin,  that  is,  it  takes 
a  solid  quantity  clean  out  of  our  being  that  can 
never  be  restored  in  earth  or  heaven?  .  .  .  The 
more  I  study  this  question,  the  more  clearly  I  see 
the  fatal  result  of  the  broken  trust.  National 
ideas  are  more  than  armies.  Let  those  ideas  be 
broken  in  our  nation  by  the  dividing  lines  of  new 
nationality,  and  the  main  strength  has  gone  out 
of  her  heart.  .  .  .  And  my  fear  when  I  consider 
this  problem  is,  that  the  men  on  the  right  side  may 
not  be  set  in  the  determination  to  keep  the  whole 
nation  at  every  cost  within  the  Union.  On  that 
first  of  all  rests  our  future;  and  the  man  who 
would  divide  while  ever  we  can  keep  together  is 
at  the  best  ignorant  of  one  of  the  deepest  princi- 


286      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

pies  of  a  commanding  national  life,  and  at  the 
worst,  if  he  will  examine  his  heart  faithfully, 
though  he  may  think  it  says  Union,  he  will  find 
the  undertones  whispering  cowardice,  or  treason. 
We  cannot  afford  to  be  indifferent  or  uncertain. 
If  we  are  not  for  America,  we  are  against  her. 
There  are  but  two  sides  for  us.  We  are  with  the 
great  mother  to  defend  her,  or  we  are  with  the 
assassins  who  seek  her  life.  If  we  stand  and  look 
on  and  the  deed  is  done,  we  are  guilty,  inasmuch 
as  we  did  not  try  to  prevent  it.  If  we  stand  and 
look  on  and  she  prove  victor,  woe  to  us  when  she 
shall  look  at  us  with  her  great  clear  eyes,  and  say. 
Coward!" 

Secondly,  came  the  lowering  question  of  for- 
eign intervention.  To  have  France  and  Eng- 
land step  in,  either  to  stop  the  war,  or  as  allies  to 
help  the  North  put  down  the  rebellion,  was  to 
him  equally  intolerable.  As  an  Englishman,  he 
yearned  for  English  sympathy.  "To  me,"  he 
said,  "it  is  one  of  the  saddest  of  all  the  issues  of 
this  struggle,  that  England,  my  noble  old  mother, 
has  sent  us  no  word  of  cheer."  But  as  an  Ameri- 
can, he  cried.  Hands  off!  "We  are  on  trial  as  a 
democracy,"  was  his  word.  "We  stand  alone — 
stand  or  fall  according  to  our  own  internal 
strength  or  weakness.  We  shall  be  utterly  dis- 
graced  by   any  buttressing  whatever.     If  the 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  287 

tower  will  not  stand  by  its  internal  strength,  bet- 
ter pull  it  clown  course  by  course  to  the  first 
foundation  and  begin  afresh.  As  I  look  out  to 
our  future  in  case  of  interference,  I  see  but  one 
of  two  issues — we  must  confess  to  the  world  that 
democracy  ...  is  a  failure,  and  is  to  live  only  by 
the  tolerance  of  monarchies  from  this  time  out, 
or  we  must  turn  our  country  into  one  swarming 
fortress  of  aroused  men  until  we  have  vindicated 
our  name  and  won  our  place  on  the  battlefields 
of  the  world." 

Then  there  was  the  final  question  of  individual 
duty  and  responsibility  in  the  great  crisis.  How 
full  and  strong  rang  out  the  preacher's  voice,  as 
he  summoned  his  people  to  perfect  loyalty.  "If 
I  am  ready  to  give  myself,  I  am  a  true  son  of 
the  fathers ;  if  I  am  not  ready,  I  am  a  craven.  I 
do  not  say  that  every  man  is  called  to  be  a  soldier, 
though  I  cannot  say  who  is  not ;  but  I  do  say  that 
every  man  is  bound  to  give  himself.  If  John 
Smith  gives  life,  and  I  am  not  ready  in  some 
way  to  give  mine,  then  he  is  exalted  up  to  heaven, 
and  I  am  cast  down  to  the  hell  of  this  kingdom 
and  power  of  God.  As  we  went  up  the  Cumber- 
land to  Fort  Donelson,  we  met  the  first  boat- 
load of  prisoners  coming  down — poor  bare- 
headed men,  with  pieces  of  carpet  for  cloaks — 
and  I  felt  not  one  impulse  to  laughter,  but  rather 


288      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  tears  at  the  sight,  for  I  said,  how  much 
stronger  are  these  men  than  they  ought  to  be. 
How  like  an  angel  of  light  is  this  devil  of  re- 
bellion when  it  can  muster  its  adherents  and  sub- 
mit them  to  such  discipline  as  this.  So  then  I 
have  not  a  penny,  not  a  book,  not  a  coat,  if  the 
balance  of  coin  turns  against  us,  before  the  war 
is  done,  that  I  must  not  be  ready  to  give,  or  sell, 
or  pawn  ...  to  conquer  this  national  integrity 
and  preserve  it  unbroken." 

Brave  were  such  words  as  these,  and  many 
were  the  hearts  to  whom  they  brought  both  com- 
fort and  new  resolution.  As  the  weary  weeks 
dragged  on,  however,  and  the  summer  passed 
into  history  with  little  to  record  but  divided  coun- 
sels in  the  closet  and  inactive  "quiet  along  the 
Potomac,"  it  became  increasingly  difficult  to  sus- 
tain the  burden  of  the  war.  Again  and  again, 
the  gallant  CoUyer  found  the  tides  of  life  run- 
ning low  within  his  soul.  "The  war  is  upon  us 
like  a  dead  weight,"  he  writes,  under  date  of 
September  9,  1862.  "What  a  woe  and  darkness 
(it)  has  become.  Surely  we  cannot  go  much 
longer  as  we  are — God  help  us."  Then  hard 
upon  these  periods  of  unutterable  depression, 
would  come  great  moments  of  courage  and  new 
faith,  and  sometimes  of  boundless  wrath,  when 
he  v/ould  rouse  himself  like  a  hungry  lion,  and, 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  289 

in  the  majesty  of  conscious  strength,  speak  till 
all  the  jungle  of  despair  and  terror  heard  and 
echoed  to  his  call.  Such  a  moment  came  in  Bos- 
ton, on  October  23,  when  he  addressed  the  Parker 
Fraternity  in  Tremont  Temple.  This  lecture, 
called  "Night  and  Morning,"  is  full  of  witty  and 
pathetic  stories,  thrilling  narratives  of  personal 
experience,  inimitable  human  touches,  and  heroic 
challenges  of  destiny,  and  thus  is  a  supremely 
characteristic  utterance.  In  its  analysis  of  events 
and  criticism  of  national  policy,  it  shows  traces 
of  that  fallibility  of  judgment  to  which  every 
contemporary  mind  is  liable.  But  as  a  revelation 
of  Collyer's  attitude,  and  of  that  of  millions  of 
his  fellow-countrymen  at  this  turning-point  of 
the  battle  for  the  Union,  it  is  an  invaluable  his- 
toric document. 

He  began  his  statement  by  pointing  to  the 
"ruin  that  is  all  about  us  to-day."  Seeking  its 
causes,  he  told  a  characteristic  story  of  a  Scotch 
corporation  which  constructed  a  bridge  from  a 
good  plan  and  with  good  workmen,  only  to  see  it 
collapse  when  the  props  were  removed,  because 
the  bricks  used  were  "bad — there  was  too  much 
sand  in  the  clay!"  "If  you  ask  me  to  tell  you," 
he  continued,  "why  the  stately  structure  built 
by  the  fathers  has  gone  down  with  a  great  crash, 
I  should  answer,  there  was  too  much  sand  in  the 


290      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

bricks ;  if  you  ask  me  why  Abraham  Lincoln  does 
not  succeed  better  in  rebuilding,  I  shall  still  an- 
swer, because  there  is  too  much  sand  in  the 
bricks;  and  if  you  ask  me  whether  he  will  ulti- 
mately succeed,  I  shall  say  it  depends  upon 
Mhether  he  has  resolved  to  use  nothing  but  good 
bricks.  .  .  .  The  sand  of  slavery  in  our  Com- 
monwealth has  brought  this  ruin;  the  sand  of 
slavery  has  beaten  out  all  our  eiForts  at  restora- 
tion up  to  this  time,  and  if  the  great  worker 
and  those  that  help  him  do  not  shovel  it  out 
of  the  way,  the  structure  can  never  be  re- 
stored. .  .  ." 

Then  followed  a  scathing  indictment  of  the  ad- 
ministration for  its  "conduct  of  the  struggle" — 
an  indictment  of  almost  startling  character  in 
view  of  Collyer's  unwavering  support  of  the 
Union  and  his  sturdy  trust  from  beginning  to 
end  in  Abraham  Lincoln.  The  iron  of  disap- 
pointment, however,  had  entered  deep  into  the 
vitals  of  his  being,  and  he  must  speak,  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger,  lest  he  be  unfaithful  to  his 
soul  and  the  cause  to  which  he  had  dedicated  that 
soul. 

*'Such  a  sight  as  this  democracy  has  presented," 
he  cried,  "of  mistaken  confidence  and  broken 
hope,  this  world  never  saw.  (Our  people)  have 
said  to  their  executive,  tell  us  what  you  want 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  291 

done  and  we  will  do  it.  Striplings  and  strong 
men  and  grey-headed  men  have  marched  out  joy- 
fully to  death  for  their  great  inheritance.  Money 
has  been  poured  out  in  such  floods  as  were  never 
seen  in  the  world  before.  The  woman  has  stood 
up  grandly  by  the  man  as  her  great  mother  in 
the  forests  of  Gaul  and  Britain  did  in  the  old 
time.  And  yet  our  record,  from  first  to  last, 
has  been  one  long  black  night,  with  but  here  and 
there  a  star.  Vultures  have  been  all  about  us 
ready  to  gorge  themselves  on  the  distracted  na- 
tion when  it  should  die.  .  .  .  Our  great  com- 
manders have  been  made  out  of  epaulettes  and 
apathy.  They  have  been  recklessly  winning  bat- 
tles on  paper,  and  losing  them  in  the  field.  .  .  . 
I  know  very  little  about  state  affairs.  The  Presi- 
dent, cabinet  and  commanders  may  have  done  the 
best  they  knew.  I  believe  the  President  has  done 
his  best.  I  trust  in  Abraham  Lincoln  as  I  trusted 
in  my  own  old  father  who  rests  in  heaven.  But 
I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to  three  cardinal  princi- 
ples of  action,  which  our  President  has  followed, 
so  far  as  I  can  understand  him,  which  to  me  seem 
to  be  radically  wrong." 

These  three  articles  of  indictment  Collyer 
elaborated  in  great  detail  and  with  excoriating 
vigour.  "In  the  first  place,  (Mr.  Lincoln  had) 
selected  his  cabinet  mainly  from  among  the  men 


292      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

who  stood  as  candidates  for  the  presidency  in  the 
Chicago  convention,  and  were  rejected  by  the 
people.  ...  A  cabinet  like  this,"  said  the 
preacher,  "may  do  very  well  when  the  great  work 
is  to  divide  party  spoils  .  .  .  but  when  it  needs 
the  most  commanding  intellect,  integrity  and 
united  purpose  that  the  whole  land  can  furnish 
...  I  cannot  believe  that  these  men  are  the  best 
that  could  be  found  in  all  the  nation  to  stand  at 
the  head  of  money  and  ships,  and  munitions  of 
war,  simply  as  men.  Their  training  has  been  en- 
tirely of  another  sort;  they  are  only  political 
preachers,  and  for  such  men  to  unite  in  a  firm, 
strong  way  to  carry  on  the  war  is  difficult  or  per- 
haps impossible."  Then  "Mr.  Lincoln  (had 
gone)  not  only  to  the  rejected  candidates  for  his 
cabinet,  but  to  the  Bell-Everett,  milk-poultice 
party,  for  his  policy  ...  a  party  that  wanted  to 
pat  and  tickle,  while  events  that  followed  each 
other  like  the  long  tattoo  summoned  the  nation 
to  strike  quick  and  hard  and  'to  the  brisket'  for 
her  honour  and  her  life,  or  she  was  lost.  .  .  . 
There  was  but  one  way  out  of  this  trouble;  the 
country  was  prepared  for  that  way  from  the 
start.  The  Milky- Way  was  not  it,  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  went  that  way  for  his  policy."  And 
"the  third  mistake  to  a  plain  man,  the  mistake 
most  fatal  of  all,  was  that  Mr,  Lincoln  went  to 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  293 

the  pro-slavery  democrats  for  his  generals — or, 
in  other  words,  the  men  who  are  placed  in  every- 
one of  the  most  important  commands  are  men 
who  have  wanted  or  do  now  want  to  see  the  South 
victorious  in  the  particular  thing  for  which  she 
has  plunged  us  into  this  dreadful  agony  of  a 
civil  war.  .  .  .  There  have  been  hopeful  con- 
versions, .  .  .  but  that  was  the  sort  that  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  began  with.  Every  man  who  hated 
the  cause  of  all  that  trouble,  and  declared  he 
would  make  a  cut  at  that,  was  kept  well  out  of 
the  way." 

This  was  savage  criticism,  nor  was  it  wholly 
unfounded.  There  were  difficulties  inherent  in 
the  vast  problem  of  conducting  the  war,  which 
the  historical  studies  of  a  later  day  have  brought 
clearly  to  the  light  for  the  first  time;  there 
were  depths  of  understanding  and  of  vision  in 
the  soul  of  the  patient  man  in  the  White  House 
which  a  half-century  of  worshipful  observation 
has  not  yet  sounded  to  the  bottom.  But  the  ad- 
ministration had  made  serious  mistakes,  the  dark- 
ness which  enshrouded  the  Union  cause  in  the 
autumn  of  1862  was  appalling,  and  it  was  as 
natural  as  it  was  proper  that  the  public  sentiment 
of  the  North  should  speak  in  no  uncertain  terms. 
Whatever  fallibility  of  judgment  may  be  found 
in  this  Boston  address,  is  more  than  compensated 


294      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

for  by  the  throbbing  devotion,  passionate  loyalty, 
and  insistent  "will  to  triumph"  that  are  revealed 
in  every  phrase.  This  man  was  in  earnest.  He 
had  enlisted  for  the  duration  of  the  war.  The 
America  which  had  drawn  him  across  the  seas  by 
her  fair  promises  of  freedom,  and  had  fulfilled 
these  promises  beyond  all  that  he  had  ever  dared 
to  dream,  was  in  the  toils  of  death,  and  nothing 
was  worth  while  in  these  dreadful  days  but  the 
work  of  saving  her.  This  work  must  be  done 
courageously,  whole-heartedly,  efficiently;  if  not, 
the  glad  sacrifice  of  millions  must  be  in  vain,  and 
the  great  cause  lost.  Hence  the  unhesitating 
valour  with  which  he  spoke  his  censure  of  what 
seemed  to  him  to  be  the  sins  of  mind  and  will 
which  were  responsible  for  disaster!  Collyer 
never  spoke  with  greater  power,  nobler  eloquence, 
more  profound  emotion  than  on  this  occasion. 
And  never  more  fairly,  too!  For  amid  the  dark- 
ness he  saw  that  there  were  streaks  of  light,  of 
which  the  President's  Emancipation  Proclama- 
tion was  the  most  conspicuous,  and  these  he  rec- 
ognised and  acclaimed  with  a  resounding  "God 
bless  Abraham  Lincoln!"  "The  Night  now  and 
forever,"  he  said,  "is  not  the  Master  but  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Day  .  .  .  and  the  Day  has  begun  to 
break  upon  us." 

The  courage,  love  of  truth,  steadfast  devotion 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  295 

to  the  right  as  God  gave  him  to  see  the  right, 
which  were  in  this  man,  was  never  better  illus- 
trated than  by  his  famous  sermon  on  the  at- 
tempted suppression  of  the  Chicago  Times, 
preached  in  Unity  Church  on  June  15,  1863. 
This  newspaper  was  a  scurrilous  "copperhead" 
sheet,  which  had  long  tried  the  patience  of  the 
loyal  citizens  of  Chicago  almost  to  the  breaking- 
point.  Collyer  had  denounced  it  Sunday  after 
Sunday  in  the  pulpit  with  matchless  daring,  for 
the  enmity  of  a  newspaper  was  as  cruel  a  "thorn 
in  the  flesh"  in  those  days  as  it  is  to-day.  At  last 
General  Burnside,  the  military  commander  of 
the  district,  took  the  paper  in  hand,  and  a  great 
shout  of  applause  and  relief  went  up  from  one 
end  of  the  city  to  the  other.  To  Robert  Collyer, 
however,  bred  in  the  hard-won  traditions  of  old 
England,  this  was  a  flagrant  attempt  to  suppress 
freedom  of  speech.  Much  as  he  hated  the  Times j 
he  hated  militaiy  autocracy  even  more.  All  the 
oppressions  of  the  old  world  rose  up  like  ghosts 
before  him,  and  stirred  him  to  revolt.  Therefore 
on  the  Sunday  following  the  seizure  of  the  paper, 
braving  misunderstanding  and  abuse  of  the  crud- 
est type,  he  preached  a  sermon  upholding  the 
freedom  of  the  press  and  censuring  Burnside  for 
his  attempt  to  suppress  the  Times,  "He  got  up 
in  his  pulpit,"  writes  one  of  his  parishioners,  "and 


296      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

with  the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks,  said 
he  was  about  to  preach  a  sermon  which  his  con- 
science had  made  him  preach,  but  which  he  felt 
sure  would  cost  him  some  dear  friends,  the  loss 
of  whose  love  would  be  a  sore  trial.  So  he 
preached  it.  When  he  began,"  says  this  narra- 
tor, "I  came  nearer  feeling  angry  with  him  than 
I  ever  did  before.  But  before  he  ended,  I  felt 
that  he  was  right  and  we  wrong." 

That  same  evening,  this  friend  wrote  a  letter 
of  congratulation  to  Kalamazoo,  whither  Collyer 
had  gone  to  deliver  an  address.  His  reply  is  in- 
teresting : 

^'My  dear  friend: 

"I  snatch  a  moment  before  mj  address  comes  off  at 
the  college  here,  to  thank  you  for  the  sweet  pure  words 
of  cheer  conveyed  in  your  note  and  which  I  received  by 
the  same  mail  with  one  from  an  old  member  of  my 
church,  accusing  me  of  prostituting  myself  to  the  Chi- 
cago Times,  of  being  a  convicted  liar  (in  going  in  the 
teeth  of  all  I  said  before),  and  of  selling  myself  for 
gold.  .  .  .  Thank  you  seems  a  poor  word,  but  what  can 
I  say  you  do  not  believe  me  to  mean  in  thank  you.'' 
I  have  sent  the  letter  I  mentioned  back  with  a  note 
saying  it  admits  of  no  answer.  That  I  send  it  so  that 
if  my  life  and  deeds  should  justify  his  judgment,  he 
may  have  the  letter  to  prove  how  accurately  he  read 
me.   But  if  time  and  the  judgment  of  the  future  justify 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  297 

my  step,  I  send  it  back  because  I  dare  not  retain  it 
for  my  children  to  read.  So  I  recommit  what  seems 
to  me  a  sad  disgrace  to  his  own  keeping.  Oh,  it  is 
very,  very  sad  that  no  faithfulness  and  honour  can  ever 
win  a  man  (some  men)  to  believe  even  in  man,  let  alone 
God." 

Examination  of  the  sermons  and  addresses  of 
Robert  Collyer  during  this  period,  reveals  certain 
salient  facts  with  great  clearness.  First  of  all, 
perhaps,  is  the  hatred  of  slavery  which  had  been 
bred  into  his  bones  by  his  liberty-loving  father, 
and  the  zeal  for  immediate  abolition  which  he 
had  acquired  as  though  with  his  citizenship  papers 
in  his  early  years  in  Pennsylvania.  Slavery  was 
the  sand  in  the  bricks  which  had  caused  the  down- 
fall of  the  republic  in  the  great  Civil  War.  Slav- 
ery was  the  crime  which  for  two  whole  genera- 
tions had  palsied  the  lips  and  spoiled  the  beauty 
of  American  freedom.  "Slavery,"  he  said,  "has 
been  a  strange  tongue  to  the  American  democrat ; 
he  could  never  quite  get  it.  We  have  carried  it 
about  with  us  as  poor  Byron  carried  his  club  foot. 
'Beautiful  as  Apollo,  that  one  thing  was  the  de- 
formity of  our  whole  life.'  We  mingled  with  the 
world  abroad  forever  conscious  that  not  the  noble 
face  and  form,  not  the  genius,  power  and  promise, 
but  the  club  foot  was  the  point  of  observation. 


298      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

For  that  the  preachers,  with  such  noble  excep- 
tions as  Parker  and  Cheever,  had  faltered  and 
stammered  in  our  pulpits.  We  have  blotted  our 
sermons  when  the  old  fires  of  freedom  burned  too 
fiercely  into  the  paper.  We  have  read  our  lesson 
beforehand  for  fear  some  echo  from  those  turbu- 
lent old  prophets  should  tear  things  when  we  got 
to  church.  We  have  studied  our  subjects  with 
the  full  knowledge  that  we  could  not  go  beyond 
a  certain  line;  that  we  must  make  justice  and 
truth  not  utter  and  ultimate,  but  proximate  and 
politic."  Then,  too,  in  addition  to  the  cancer 
eating  at  the  heart  of  American  political  idealism, 
must  be  noted  the  hideous  cruelty  and  injustice 
to  the  black  man  which  are  involved  in  this  in- 
stitution! "Ever  since  the  Negro  dwelt  by  old 
Nile,  he  was  despised  and  rejected  of  men;  a  man 
of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief,  and  we  hid 
as  it  were  our  faces  from  him;  he  was  despised 
and  we  esteemed  him  not.  But  here  we  find  him 
bound  up  in  our  very  existence,  woven  into  our 
life  as  the  woof  is  woven  into  the  web — we  stand 
or  fall,  live  or  die,  together — he  will  wait  for  our 
decision  to  do  him  justice.  If  we  do  it  now,  we 
live.  If  we  refuse  to  do  it,  we  die  as  a  republic, 
and  deserve  to  die." 

Here  was  speaking  the  thoroughgoing  Aboli- 
tionist— the  man  of  the  Garrison,  Phillips,  Gree- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  299 

ley  type,  who  would  make  no  compromise  with 
sin,  and  who  saw  with  perfect  distinctness  that 
the  war  must  strike  the  shackles  from  the  limbs  of 
the  slave,  or  else  be  a  failure,  no  matter  how 
firmly  the  Union  of  the  states  was  re-established. 
To  Collyer,  as  to  other  Abolitionists,  the  wise  de- 
liberation, or,  as  they  put  it,  the  cowardly  evasion, 
of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  dealing  with  this  evil, 
was  a  source  of  constant  irritation.  He  was  of 
those  who  rebuked  the  President  for  not  emanci- 
pating the  slaves  upon  the  instant;  and  his  voice 
was  one  of  the  millions  which  was  lifted  in  Horace 
Greeley's  Open  Letter,^  ^  to  which  Mr.  Lincoln 
made  so  memorable  a  reply.  "It  is  to  me  a  ter- 
rible symptom  of  disease  in  some  vital  part,"  he 
said,  in  his  July  6th  sermon,  "that  nothing  seems 
to  be  held  sacred  but  this  most  infernal  cause  of 
all  our  agony  and  danger.  We  call  our  Sabbaths 
sacred,  and  yet  we  fight  nearly  every  great  battle 
on  a  Sunday.  We  consecrate  our  churches,  and 
then  we  turn  them  into  hospitals  for  the  wounded, 
friend  and  enemy  alike,  and  let  the  congregations 
worship  wherever  they  can  find  a  place,  or  not  at 
all.  We  shatter  tens  of  thousands  of  the  noblest 
of  all  the  temples  of  God,  our  bodies,  with  shot 
and  shell  on  battlefields.     In  a  word,  we  seem 

^Entitled  "The  Prayer  of  Twenty  Millions,"  and  published  in 
the  New  York  Tribune  of  August  20,  1862. 


300      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

to  do  whatever  we  will  to  desecrate  what  belongs 
to  God.  Sabbaths  and  churches  and  men  are 
all  destroyed  without  measure  for  the  common- 
wealth, and  the  whole  voice  of  the  loyal  nation 
testifies  that  the  cause  is  worth  the  cost.  We  de- 
stroy what  belongs  to  God,  and  never  fear;  but 
we  are  in  terror  of  touching  with  the  tip  of  our 
finger  w^hat  belongs  to  the  devil.  The  most  sacred 
things  are  destroyed;  the  most  infernal  thing  is 
guarded  as  if  it  were  the  holiest  of  holies.  .  .  . 
Friends,  this  is  the  gravest  danger  of  all  to-day. 
The  foe  is  in  deadly  earnest  to  shatter  the  Union 
and  preserve  slavery.  We  are  in  constant  terror 
lest,  in  trying  to  save  the  Union,  we  should  de- 
stroy slavery." 

That  Collyer  looked  upon  the  Emancipation 
Proclamation  as  "the  first  flash  of  the  morning," 
has  already  been  indicated.  "We  strip  off  our 
shame  at  this  moment,"  was  his  exultant  shout. 
Abraham  Lincoln  has  vindicated  himself.  "The 
whole  country  was  full  of  rumours.  The  Presi- 
dent is  in  the  hands  of  his  cabinet.  The  Presi- 
dent is  in  the  hands  of  the  army.  The  President 
has  no  power.  The  President  is  a  weak  man. 
The  President  dare  not  touch  slavery.  Men's 
hearts  failed  them  for  fear,  and  well  they  might. 
It  was  a  fearful  time."  Then  came  the  word  of 
liberation  and  all  was  changed.    "We  have  now 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  301 

seen  the  hand  of  Abraham  Lincoln;  he  has  shown 
his  hand— it  unlocks  the  door  of  life.     He  has 
shown  his  head— it  is  held  up  for  freedom  and 
right;    protect    him."      The    future    was    from 
henceforth  secure.     "When  man  shall  rise  up," 
he  cried,  "and  condemn  this  republic  for  the  sin 
of  slavery,  and  say,  In  the  old  time  your  fathers 
bought  and  sold  men,  our  children  shall  point  to 
the  noble  deeds,  to  the  long  line  of  men  and  wo- 
men that  gave  themselves  for  the  nation  when  the 
sin  had  brought  the  death,  and  they  shall  see  how 
the  sin  was  lost  in  the  agony  and  penitence  and 
resolute  justice  that  has  come  with  this  struggle." 
A  second  revelation  contained  in  these  Civil 
War  sermons  and  addresses,  is  Collyer's  attitude 
toward  the  question  of  w^ar.    Never  at  any  time 
was  he  a  non-resistant.    His  biting  comment  on 
pacifism  of  the  extreme  type  was  set  forth  in  the 
form  of  a  parable.    "When  the  Quaker  held  the 
peace  principle  too  strictly,"  he  said,  "his  oppo- 
nent at  last  told  him  a  story:  how  away  out  in 
our  western  wilds,  a  settler  went  to  plough,  carry- 
ing his  rifle,  and,  as  he  came  home  to  dinner,  saw 
his  cabin  all  aflame,  and  his  wife  fleeing  from  the 
tomahawk  of  the  savage— and  the  husband  had 
but  just  time  to  raise  his  rifle  and  shoot  the  sav- 
age down.     And  the  man  said  to  the  Quaker, 
'What  would  you  have  done?'     'Well,  I  would 


302      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

have  shot  him,  if  I  had  a  gun,  but  still  it  would 
have  been  against  my  principles;  I  ought  not  to 
shoot  him.'  'Madam,'  said  the  man  turning  to 
the  wife,  'what  do  you  think  he  ought  to  have 
done?'  The  quiet  reply  was,  'If  he  hadn't  shot 
him,  he  might  be  a  very  good  Quaker,  but  he 
would  be  a  very  bad  husband.'  " 

But  if  not  a  non-resistant,  Collyer  had  been  be- 
fore the  war  a  peace  man.  "I  suppose,"  he  said, 
"I  could  find  you  five  hundred  texts  that  were 
all  on  that  side.  I  devoutly  believed  that  the 
Prince  of  Peace  had  taught  men  that  war  was 
wrong  under  all  circumstances  whatever." 

"When  the  first  cannon  shot  shattered  the  ark 
of  the  covenant  at  Fort  Sumter,"  however,  Coll- 
yer's  "blood  with  the  blood  of  every  loyal  man 
began  to  boil."  The  Union  was  in  danger.  The 
chance  to  destroy  slavery  was  come.  These  two 
considerations  were  permanent,  and  all  conflict- 
ing theories  of  war  and  peace  must  yield  to  the 
supreme  necessities  of  the  hour.  And  with  a 
forth-right  resoluteness  which  had  a  touch  of  the 
magnificent  about  it,  he  appealed  to  Christ  in 
justification  of  his  change  of  front. 

"We  have  all  been  teaching,"  he  said,  "that 
certain  things  were  unchristian,  that  it  would  be 
contrary  to  the  spirit  of  Christ  to  do  them.  Now 
we  find  we  have  to  do  them,  and  in  our  perplexity 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  303 

we  rather  put  Christ  aside.  We  admit  the  abso- 
lute beauty  of  the  Sermon  on  the  IVIount,  but 
think  it  had  better  be  put  by  until  we  get  done 
with  this  war.  .  .  .  But  I  fear  this  is  a  great 
mistake.  Surely  here,  as  everywhere,  Christ 
claims  to  be  in  vanguard  and  rear  and  centre,  and, 
w^hether  we  fight  in  this  or  any  other  great  right 
cause,  to  be  the  captain  of  our  salvation.  Do  we 
not  perplex  ourselves  by  trying  to  make  certain 
words  of  the  ISIaster  a  finality,  instead  of  receiv- 
ing his  whole  life  as  our  inspiration,  and  letting 
our  life,  in  its  turn,  be  an  expression  of  that 
union?  It  seems  to  me  we  not  only  need  Christ, 
but  that  Christ  needs  us — not  to  hold  on  to  cer- 
tain logical  sequences,  but  to  live  such  a  life  as 
he  lived,  fearlessly  and  fully,  so  that  whatever 
new  relations  the  evident  duties  of  the  new  day 
may  bring  with  them,  to  do  those  duties,  whether 
they  harmonise  with  what  we  were  understood  to 
say  on  some  previous  occasion,  or  no,  should  be 
the  one  overw^helming  determination  of  the  hour. 
For  you  cannot  reduce  the  life  of  Christ  to  logical 
sequence  such  as  it  is  claimed  we  should  ob- 
serve. .  .  .  For  life  is  more  than  logic.  The  gos- 
pels were  not  meant  for  a  book  of  set  rules,  but  a 
fountain  of  inspiration.  .  .  .  As  the  sap  of  the 
tree  goes  out  to  every  uttermost  living  twig,  so 
the  life  of  Christ  enters  into  every  different  form 


304      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

of  human  life,  to  consecrate  and  protect  that 
form,  not  to  destroy  it.  One  with  the  Father  in 
heaven,  and  one  with  the  little  child  shouting 
under  my  window;  able  to  wrestle  with  loneli- 
ness, hunger  and  evil  spirits  in  the  wilderness, 
yet  to  enter  with  hearty  interest  with  the  embar- 
rassments of  the  poor  bridegroom  who  could  af- 
ford no  more  wine;  now,  when  it  was  best,  sub- 
mitting to  insult  and  indignity,  as  a  lamb  before 
her  shearers  is  dumb,  now  when  a  great  truth  or 
the  cause  of  God  or  man  was  to  be  vindicated, 
sweeping  through  the  Temple  like  a  whirlwind!" 
Such  was  Christ!  Wherefore  "the  Christian  sol- 
dier does  not  need  to  lay  aside  his  sword,  but 
more  sacredly  to  keep  it  bright,  and  to  be  one 
with  this  mighty  Captain — tender  and  gentle  be- 
yond all,  wherever  there  is  penitence  and  sub- 
mission to  the  right,  irresistible  as  the  great  tides, 
to  sweep  through  banded  opposition  and  wrong." 
Impressive  also  in  these  addresses  and  sermons 
in  war  time  is  Collyer's  unwavering  belief  in,  and 
fidelity  to,  Abraham  Lincoln.  He  was  at  times 
a  remorseless  critic,  as  we  have  seen.  The  col- 
lapse of  the  Virginia  campaign  in  the  summer 
of  1862,  and  the  refusal  of  the  President  to  take 
any  decisive  step  toward  the  liberation  of  the 
slave,  tested  his  loyalty  to  the  utmost.  More 
than  once  he  was  tempted  into  hasty  and  incon- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  305 

siderate  judgment,  as,  for  example,  when  he  re- 
ferred to  his  experience  of  seeing  the  row  of  boots 
on  the  window-ledges  of  the  White  House,^*  and 
said,  "For  months  and  months  after  that  time, 
whenever  I  tried  to  see  the  cabinet  through  my 
newspaper  telescope,  I  seldom  saw  anything  but 
five  or  six  pairs  of  feet  turned  flat  out,  that  never 
seemed  to  move.  I  saw  no  heads,  but  only  feet, 
and  they  were  not  put  down,  they  were  turned 
out."  On  one  occasion,  at  least,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  he  was  guilty  of  an  utterance  which 
now  seems  little  short  of  cruel.^^  But  such  lapses 
were  momentary.  Even  when  he  was  most  out- 
spoken in  censure  of  the  policies  of  the  adminis- 
tration, CoUyer  took  pains  to  affirm  his  faith  in 
Mr.  Lincoln.  When  every  other  brick  in  the 
national  structure  was  crumbling  because  of  "too 
much  sand,"  Collyer  declared  that  Lincoln  was 
"a  good  brick.  When  he  was  created  anew,  after 
he  left  Kentucky,  the  sand  was  left  out."  At 
bottom  there  was  a  kinship  between  these  two 
men  which  made  understanding  as  inevitable  as 

"  See  above,  page  256. 

"  "The  country  looked  in  those  sad,  dark  hours,  to  see  its  Pres- 
ident rise  up,  massive  and  muscular;  to  see  him  stand  silently  at 
the  wheel,  grasping  the  spokes  until  his  knuckles  grew  white;  to 
see  the  shadow  on  his  face  that  comes  from  looking  into  great 
deeps,  like  the  shadow  that  was  on  the  face  of  Cromwell,  or  Wash- 
ington. It  heard  of  him  ready  to  tell  a  story  a  propos  of  anything 
in  the  earth,  or  under,  or  above  it," — R.  C,  on  October  23,  1862. 


306      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

the  mingling  of  mountain  streams  in  their  courses 
to  the  sea.  The  Yorkshire  apprentice,  who  had 
toiled  in  the  cotton  mills  at  Blubberhouses,  could 
not  be  seriously  or  long  alienated  from  the  Ken- 
tucky lad,  who  had  split  rails  in  the  frontier  wil- 
derness. The  blacksmith,  who  had  read  his  books 
by  the  light  of  the  forge  fire  in  Ilkley,  and 
climbed  by  "painful  steps  and  slow"  into  the  min- 
istry, could  not  fail  to  discern  the  final  purposes 
of  this  village  clerk  who  had  hewn,  by  the  sheer 
strength  of  intellect  and  will,  a  pathway  to  the 
law.  These  men  were  one  in  the  circumstances 
of  birth  and  rearing.  They  had  sprung  from 
lowest  peasant  stock,  known  direst  poverty  and 
deprivation,  laboured  in  earliest  years  for  bread, 
sought  in  chance  books  and  personal  contacts  the 
open  way  to  knowledge,  won  against  terrific  odds 
the  levels  of  influence  and  fame.  They  had 
known  as  well  the  woods  and  fields,  the  running 
stream  and  singing  bird.  They  had  penetrated 
the  human  heart,  and  learned  the  secrets  of  its 
moods  and  passions.  They  had  joyed  and  sor- 
rowed greatly,  and  thus  known  the  revelry  of 
laughter  and  the  bitter  dregs  of  tears.  Above  all 
were  they  at  one  in  the  possession  of  those  mystic 
qualities  of  tenderness,  compassion,  pity,  which 
can  at  once  fashion  a  tale  of  human  frailty  with 
boundless  humour,  and  rise  with  inexpressibly 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  307 

noble  and  pathetic  dignity  to  the  heights  of  trag- 
edy. That  Lincoln  should  pass  before  the  gaze 
of  Robert  CoUyer  and  not  be  recognised  and  ac- 
claimed was  as  impossible  as  that  the  sun  should 
mount  the  skies  and  not  be  seen  of  men.  How 
Collyer  revelled  in  the  fact  that  America  had 
elected  to  the  Presidency  a  man  "who  sprang 
from  probably  the  poorest  family  of  poor  whites 
in  Kentucky — who  was  famous  for  splitting  rails, 
and  had  run  a  flat-boat,  the  hardest  work  one 
can  do — who  had  kept  a  grocery  and  sold  rum — 
whose  voice  rang  out  clear  wherever  he  went, 
*As  a  man,  in  my  relation  to  slavery  as  a  man — 
I  hate  slavery!'  "  How  he  acclaimed  him  as  a 
true  scion  of  the  West!  Lincoln,  he  said,  "is  a 
man — an  upright,  downright,  honest  man.  He 
is  homely  and  angular,  to  be  sure — our  Prairie- 
bred  men  are  not  handsome.  They  are  not  what 
you  might  call  Grecian  in  their  outlines,  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  in  homeliness  stood  number  one,  even 
on  the  Prairie.  But  if  Diogenes  had  gone  into 
Springfield  blinking  with  his  lantern,  and  had 
met  Abraham  Lincoln  on  the  sidewalk,  he  would 
have  blown  out  the  light  and  shouted,  You  are 
the  very  man  I  am  after." 

Collyer  knew  and  believed  in  Lincoln  from  the 
first.  The  censures  and  criticisms  of  the  early 
months  of  the  war  were  but  the  waves  ruffled  by 


308      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

the  gusts  of  impatience  and  hot  desire  which  did 
not  touch,  much  less  disturb,  the  quiet  deeps  of 
loyalty.  As  the  struggle  wore  on  through  the 
weary  years,  and  the  burdened  President  in  the 
White  House  loomed  ever  more  majestic  and 
beautiful,  love  for  him  came  to  possess  every 
fibre  of  Collyer's  heart.  When  criticism  was 
spoken  in  these  latter  months,  Collyer  resented 
it  as  though  directed  against  himself.  "Con- 
way's article  on  Lincoln,"  he  wrote  to  Edward 
Everett  Hale  on  February  12,  1865,  "is  bitter 
and  bad.  I  am  sorry  for  it  and  for  him."  And 
w^hen  at  last  on  the  fatal  day  of  April,  1865,  there 
fell  the  aw^ful  blow  of  assassination,  no  man  in  all 
the  land  was  more  nearly  or  more  deeply  touched 
than  he.  "Here  we  are,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend, 
"in  the  quiet  after  the  great  storm  of  sorrow  that 
swept  over  us  for  the  murder  of  our  good  Presi- 
dent. We  had  little  else  in  our  hearts  and  minds 
while  he  was  above  the  ground,  and  the  scene  last 
Monday  and  Tuesday  was  very  impressive — one 
of  those  sights  that  are  never  forgotten."  His 
grief  at  first  registered  its  depth  of  anguish  by 
a  demand  for  the  most  unrelenting  prosecution  of 
the  conspirators.  "I  perceive,"  he  wrote  in  this 
same  letter,  "that  I  have  offended  a  few  (in 
Unity)  by  insisting  upon  the  severest  punish- 
ment to  whoever  is  found  implicated  in  the  mur- 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  309 

der,  and  they  punish  me  by  staying  away  from 
church."  But  this  mood  passed  from  his  heart 
long  before  it  passed  from  the  country.  He  un- 
derstood the  martyred  President  too  well,  and 
was  himself  too  compassionate  in  nature,  to  nurse 
revenge  even  for  such  a  deed  as  this,  and  there- 
fore in  due  season  came  to  show  the  inevitable 
"quality  of  mercy." 

In  this  Civil  War  period,  the  most  stupendous 
in  American  history  up  to  our  own  dreadful 
day,^^  Robert  CoUyer  played  a  highly  useful  and 
honourable,  if  not  nationally  conspicuous,  part. 
In  the  country  at  large,  he  was  one  of  many  thou- 
sands of  loyal  citizens  who  did  their  "bit"  at 
such  place  and  time  as  opportunity  offered,  and 
in  such  ways  as  talent  and  profession  made  pos- 
sible. In  his  own  community,  however,  he  stood, 
like  Agamemnon,  a  leader  among  leaders.  By 
the  mid-period  of  the  struggle,  he  was  one  of 
the  great  men  of  the  city.  As  an  interpreter  and 
moulder  of  public  opinion,  he  was  from  the  be- 
ginning without  a  rival.  It  was  to  him  that 
Chicago  learned  to  look  more  and  more  singly,  as 
the  war  wore  on,  for  the  right  word  of  admoni- 
tion, comfort  and  good  cheer.  As  a  servant  of 
public  safety  and  need,  he  was  among  the  first 
to  be  summoned  for  counsel  or  to  be  despatched 

»•  1917. 


310      THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

afield  for  action.  Whether  on  the  Donelson  bat- 
tlefield, or  in  the  Douglas  prison-camp,  or  at 
some  one  of  the  innumerable  committee  meetings 
in  public  offices  or  private  parlours,  he  was  the 
representative  incarnation  of  Chicago's  loyalty, 
zeal  and  unwearied  benevolence  in  the  nation's 
cause.  The  mouthpiece  of  its  hopes  and  fears, 
the  administrator  of  its  charities,  a  leader  of  its 
counsels,  Robert  Collyer  was  through  all  these 
years  a  dominant  figure  of  the  city's  life.  Nor  is 
it  difficult  to  assay  the  quality  of  his  success.  At 
bottom  was  a  certain  combination  of  personal 
charm  and  rugged  native  strength  which  made 
him  not  only  to  be  admired  but  also  trusted  of 
men.  Never  a  leader  in  the  great  sense  of  the 
word,  he  was  throughout  his  life,  as  at  this  time, 
a  kind  of  rallying-centre  for  those  who  needed 
the  shelter  of  an  undaunted  spirit  and  the  serv- 
ice of  a  loving  heart.  But  more  than  this,  as  a 
determining  factor  of  his  influence  at  this  criti- 
cal period  of  national  destiny,  was  the  indwelling 
passion  of  supreme  conviction.  Robert  Collyer 
believed  in  the  nation,  and  at  this,  the  hour  of  re- 
bellion, in  the  nation's  cause.  The  firing  on  Sum- 
ter, like  a  lightning  flash  from  darkened  skies, 
smote  the  altar  of  his  heart,  and  kindled  there- 
upon a  fire  of  pure  devotion  which  burned  with 
undiminished  flame  throughout  the  entire  period 


OF  ROBERT  COLLYER  311 

of  the  war.  The  preservation  of  the  Union,  the 
emancipation  of  the  slave,  the  perpetuation  of  the 
great  American  experiment  of  democracy — these 
were  ideals  for  the  service  of  which  the  sacrifice 
of  life  itself  seemed  to  him  to  be  an  almost  trivial 
price.  Hence  his  passion,  which  stirred  him  to 
prophetic  utterance,  dedicated  him  to  dangerous 
and  heart-breaking  tasks  of  service,  persuaded 
him  to  harsh  indictment  of  officials  struggling 
with  problems  too  vast  for  understanding,  and 
lifted  him  to  prayer  and  praise  for  the  victories 
of  patience,  courage  and  unfaltering  fortitude 
which  saved  at  last  the  day!  He  saw  the  issues 
of  the  mighty  struggle  with  a  clearness  shared  by 
many  others,  but  felt  the  urgency  of  their  right 
settlement  with  almost  unique  emotion.  Hence 
the  sweep  of  conviction  which  lifted  him  at  the 
very  opening  of  the  war  to  the  forefront  of  Chi- 
cago's life,  and  held  him  there  until  its  close! 

Finally  is  it  to  be  noted  that  this  great  period 
marks  a  definite  transition  in  the  Collyer  ro- 
mance. It  takes  us  at  once  from  the  story  of  a 
private  life  to  that  of  a  public  career.  Unknown 
before  1861  beyond  a  very  narrow  circle  of  per- 
sonal friends  and  associates,  Robert  Collyer  is 
now  in  1865  full  launched  upon  his  later  course 
of  honour,  fame  and  power.  From  this  time  on, 
it  is  a  different  man  we  envisage,  and  set  in  a  very 


C12  ROBERT  COLLYER 

different  environment.  After  long  preparation, 
he  has  "arrived.'*  Hence  a  transformation  of  our 
tale!  But  before  we  enter  upon  this  new  and 
vaster  chapter  of  events,  we  must  first  record  the 
more  personal  happenings  of  this  stormy  era  of 
civil  conflict ;  and  then  narrate,  as  a  kind  of  idyl- 
lic interlude  between  two  great  though  contrasted 
periods  of  achievement,  the  episodes  of  the  sum- 
mer spent  in  Europe. 


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DATE  BORROWED 

DATE  DUE 

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0035521848 


JAW  ai  i^  jy]g 


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938.79 

Holmes 

Collyer^ 


C6993 
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.tejgs  of-fii^egt^ 


